


Year 2017

by Luna_Hart



Series: Snapshots [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, HYDRA Husbands, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Injury, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Rehabilitation, Rescue Missions, Torture, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-01-09 20:56:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12284271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: The year of difficult choices. The year of loss and recovery. The year of forgiveness. The year James Barnes was re-taken by HYDRA.





	1. August

  
Brock pushed his aviators further up on his nose, feeling the sweat drip down his back. It was so muggy out that it felt like breathing molasses. Even being on the motorbike did little to cool him as he sped down the packed dirt roads. Jungle whipped by on either side as he wound his way back down to the coast.

He pulled up in front of a little rustic-looking bungalow and parked the bike next to a dusty pickup truck. He pushed through the door, kicking his shoes off as he went.

“Jack?” He called out as he tossed his backpack one way and his keys the other. They landed with a loud clink on the kitchen counter. It only took seconds to realize Jack wasn't inside. The house wasn't that big. On a hot day like this, there was only one place Jack could possibly be.

Brock made his way through the house and out the back door. He followed the winding path down through the trees. Slowly dirt became sand and the trees opened up onto a white sandy beach that stretched to either side as far as the eye could see. Brock scanned the sand, spotting a lone towel and pair of flip flops. He made his way over and sat in the shade, scanning the waves.

He didn’t have to wait long. His breath caught as he watched Jack emerge from the surf. Jack looked as good now as he did in his prime. Better, if you asked Brock. He was a little thicker across the chest, his toned abs contrasting nicely with his tanned skin as his board shorts rode low on his hips.

Jack had worked hard to get back into fighting shape since they arrived in Indonesia. He had in fact been kicking Brock’s ass to do the same, spending early mornings on the beach running through drills and sparring.

Brock rolled his eyes as Jack shook his head, shaggy hair flinging water droplets in every direction. The man looked like he was striding out of some GQ magazine.

Brock didn't even grumble as Jack splattered him with seawater as he sat down, he was that hot. Sticky would be another word for it. As much as Brock loved Indonesia, he hated being sticky.

“How was work?” Jack asked, wiping his face with the towel. Brock shrugged. “Hot. Dusty. Sweaty.” He had found work with a local construction company. It wasn't much money, not that they really needed it. It was more of something to do to occupy his mind. Jack, on the other hand, didn't work. Lazy bastard.

“Hey,” Brock piped up. “The fact that you don't have a job kinda makes you my housewife, doesn't it?”

Jack grunted, tossing him a dirty look as he scrubbed the towel through his hair. “Would you prefer to call me your sugar daddy?” Brock said slyly. “Shut up,” Jack growled, chucking the towel in Brock’s face. He slipped on his flip flops and headed towards the trailhead. “You coming?” Jack tossed over his shoulder. “In a minute,” Brock replied. Jack only grunted again and made his way back up the trail.

Brock took a deep breath, simply happy to be able to enjoy his surroundings. Regardless of the fact they had been in Ubud for the last five months, after so long confined on the Raft, Brock swore never to take sunshine or fresh air for granted again.

 

 

By the time Brock made his way back up to the house, the sun was well on its way to the horizon. He wandered into the kitchen where Jack was hard at work chopping various veggies and fruit. He wrinkled his nose as Brock neared, smacking his hand away as he snuck a piece of papaya. “Go shower. You stink,” Jack complained. Brock chuckled. “I expect dinner to be ready in a timely fashion.”

“Not your fucking housewife,” Jack growled. “Whatever you say, sweet cheeks,” Brock said in a sugary voice, slapping Jack hard on the ass as he passed. If he quickened his pace to the bathroom, it definitely wasn't because of the very sharp knife the younger man had in his hands.

By the time Brock reentered the kitchen, hair damp from the shower, dinner actually was ready. They sat out on the back deck and ate in relative silence. They shared a few beers and watched the sun as it dipped below the horizon, staining the sky red and orange. It was a lazy life for the two of them now. To be honest, it was making Brock itchy.

“What are we doing here, Jack?” He asked, looking out over slope. He could just catch a sliver of the ocean where it met the sky. “Early retirement?” Jack drawled, taking a swig from his beer. Brock couldn't be distracted from his train of thought that easily.

“We’ve been here almost a year already,” he continued softly. “I've never not had a purpose, yah know? I’ve had one job my whole life. One set of very specialized skills. I've never known anything else.”

“You and me both,” Jack drawled. Brock didn't reply right away. He fiddled with the label on his beer, collecting his thoughts. He could feel Jack’s eyes on him.

“I just…,” Brock stumbled. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do now.” Jack didn't seem to have an answer for that. They sat in silence as the sky darkened and the stars started to come out.

And then Jack was on his feet. He drained the last of his beer before turning to Brock. “Night swim?” He offered. Brock cracked a smile. Even halfway around the world, millions of miles from their old life, Brock still never trusted the good times to last. Might as well enjoy paradise while they could.

“Hell yeah,” he said, downing the last of his drink.

 

 

 

 

Brock woke early to birds chirping and a warm body snug against his back. He hummed contentedly, burrowing deeper into the covers. He felt an arm wrap around his waist and a large hand splay against his chest. He reached up, tangling his fingers through Jack’s. Old habits died hard, especially for old soldiers.

The sun was barely cresting the horizon, warm light flooding through the white curtains and they were both already awake. Just because he was awake didn't mean he had to get out of bed, though.

He felt rough stubble scratch against his bare shoulder and teeth nip at the side of his neck. He rolled over, hooking a leg over Jack’s thigh and burying a hand in his shaggy hair. “You need to shave,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. Jack hummed in acknowledgement, leaning in to capture Brock’s lips with his own. Brock made a face. “And brush your teeth.”

“Too demanding too early,” Jack grumbled, giving Brock a gentle shove. Brock chuckled. He closed his eyes again, letting himself be lulled by Jack’s steady breathing. A hand settled on his hip, pulling him closer.

Brock let Jack manhandle him so his face was tucked into the hollow of the younger man’s throat. Strong arms wrapped around him, holding him tight.

There had been a time where Brock wouldn't have been caught dead cuddling, let alone with another man. Not anymore. 

The early mornings or the late nights where they did nothing but enjoy each other’s company. Brock's only regret is that he hadn't grown up faster. They could have had more of these moments if he hadn't been so wound up in his own insecurities.

They dozed for another hour or so before Brock’s bladder couldn't be ignored anymore. With a groan, he extracted himself from Jack’s embrace and stumbled through to the bathroom. After finishing business, he made his way into the little kitchen and put the coffee on. While he waited he went online and trolled the news for anything relevant.

After catching up on everything they missed while being incarcerated, what with Wakanda and Winter— no, _James_ , being apprehended in Bucharest and then promptly escaping, both he and Jack had been keeping a close eye on the news. While HYDRA had been dead quiet for a long time now, it was safe to assume they were still in operation, just biding their time and regrouping.

His eyes were starting to blur as he scanned known HYDRA controlled web sights. The coffee pot beeped. Brock was halfway standing when a phrase in the blog he had been reading things about. ‘ _….soldiering through to Winter._ ’ Brock rolled his eyes. “It’s fucking August,” he muttered as he went and poured himself a coffee.

He took a sip as he wandered back to the computer, clicking onto the next sight. As he scrolled down through the article, the same phrase caught his eye.

_Soldiering through to Winter._

He frowned. It could just be a coincidence. He went to another sight, finding the same phrase repeated. It took three sights before he believed what he was seeing for sure.

“Jack,” he called. A muffled noise was the only reply. “Jack, you need to see this.” He said, unintentionally putting a hard edge in his voice like he used to do on STRIKE missions. He heard sheets rustling and muttered curses as Jack shuffled across the floor. “What?” He grumbled, bracing his hands on the back of Brock’s chair. Brock pointed to the phrase. “So?” Jack said with a yawn, cracking his neck. “Just look,” Brock snapped, opening the next article.

“Could just be a coincidence,” Jack said slowly but Brock shook his head, pulling up the other articles. “This many times?” He questioned after showing Jack them all. “All on HYDRA controlled sights? It's an antiquated way of communicating, but if their entire network is still in chaos it's not a bad system to get word out.”

He twisted in his seat, looking up to Jack. “They're going after him, aren’t they?”

Jack didn’t reply, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. He snatched Brock’s coffee mug and drained it before stalking to the kitchen and refilling it. He passed it back to Brock without a word. Brock could see the taller man collecting his thoughts, processing. He was thinking so intensely Brock could practically hear the gears turning.

“Isn’t he in Wakanda?” he finally rumbled. “That’s just speculation,” Brock replied. “Yeah, but it’s likely,” Jack pushed. “You really think HYDRA can get him out of _Wakanda_ unnoticed?” Brock huffed a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“You keep that up, you’re gonna go bald,” Jack muttered. Brock didn’t even bother commenting on that. “Look, we can’t do anything right now,” Jack said with a sigh. “We’ll keep an eye out, okay? Don’t worry.”

“Don’t placate me,” Brock snapped. Immediately he felt bad. He didn't even need to turn around. He could practically feel the irritation radiating from Jack. “Fine. Well, I’m gonna make breakfast,” the younger man stated. Brock scowled. He heard the clinking of dishes and cursed under his breath.

He pushed back from the desk and wandered over to the kitchen where Jack was whisking eggs. He leaned on his elbows in front of Jack. Jack gave him a look before continuing his task.

“I’m an ass,” Brock finally admitted. Jack hummed in agreement, not looking up as he tossed cheese and salt into the eggs. “And I’m sorry I snapped,” Brock added. Jack heaved another sigh, finally looking up to Brock. “Jackass,” Jack muttered. “Yep, this is Jack’s ass,” Brock said with a small smirk.

“You’re incorrigible,” Jack huffed, his eyes softened. “Hey,” he added gently. “We will keep an eye out, okay?” Brock nodded, wondering yet again what he ever did to deserve the man standing in front of him.

 

 

  
It was three weeks later when they got their answer. Another repeat message popped up on the various HYDRA controlled sights. _‘Reprogram those Winter blues.’_

“Fuck,” Brock muttered. “They have him,” he stated, rubbing a hand over his face. “Where?” Jack asked, not looking up from where he was cleaning his Barrett M82 rifle. “Could be anywhere,” Brock said, running through the list of HYDRA facilities in his head. “Okay, assuming that he was taken from Wakanda—,”

“Which is likely,” Jack interrupting. “Yeah, you said,” Brock said with exaggerated patience. “And assuming they'd want to get him secure as quickly as possible—.”

“Which they'd be idiots if they didn't,” Jack said with a snort. “Do you mind?” Brock growled, glaring across the room. Jack’s lips quirked but he didn’t look up from what he was doing.

“Anyways, that would rule out North America,” Brock said with a sigh. “There’s that safe house in Egypt—,” he started but Jack shook his head. “Too small, not enough personnel or equipment. They wouldn't take him there.”

“Europe is littered with them. How the fuck are we gonna narrow it down?” Brock exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. “There's one in Prague, three in England. There’s France, Greece, Germany, like eight in Russia alone—,”

“Prague fell during the uprising,” Jack said, interrupted again as he swiftly began to reassemble the rifle. “England is too risky. Their intelligence agency is on high alert right now, not to mention SHIELD still has a heavy presence there despite everything. France and Greece are possibilities but they just don't have the facilities or equipment to deal with…” He trailed off, hands going still.

“What?” Brock said. “The key phrase,” Jack said in a soft voice.

Brock frowned in confusion and then the lightbulb turned on. “They’d gonna wipe him,” he breathed. “As soon as possible too or they’d never be able to handle him. That definitely narrows it down. Who else has one besides Washington?”

“The Russians,” Jack said immediately. “You think it’s still in Siberia?” Brock asked skeptically. He highly doubted it. That facility had been abandoned since the late nineties and given what had happened there last year, Brock would doubt there was much left to salvage.

Jack shook his head. “No, remember when they sent the Soldier with another team? About four years back?”

“Yeah,” Brock said slowly, wracking his brain for the details. The mission had been a disaster. Something had triggered the Soldier’s memories and they had to abort the mission. He was so difficult to handle they didn’t want to risk the time it would take to get him back stateside. They had taken him somewhere much closer.

“Kaliningrad,” he and Jack said in unison.

“It that base still operational?” Brock questioned. “Should be,” Jack said with a nod. “Wasn’t on the burn list.” Brock nodded slowly. “Okay then,” he said. “What?” He asked sharply when he saw Jack hesitate, setting down the rifle pieces with careful ease.

“You really want to do this?” He asked softly.

“What are you talking about?” Brock said, puzzled. Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair. At this point it was hard to remember who had picked up that habit from whom. Brock frowned, getting to his feet. He crossed the room and pushed aside the weaponry, sitting down on the coffee table in front of Jack. Green eyes reluctantly rose to meet his.

“We pulled off the impossible,” Jack whispered, looking pained. “We got out alive. No one knows where we are. We got out, Brock.” Jack paused, dropping his eyes. “And now you want to jump back in.”

Brock swallowed, something ugly feeling coiling in the pit of his stomach. “I can’t let them twist him back into a weapon,” he whispered, staring down at his own hands. “I just can’t, Jack.” He fought the rising ill feeling as he forced the next words past his lips. “I won’t ask you to come—,”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jack interrupted harshly. “You think I’m letting you go by yourself? You wouldn’t last two days without me to watch your back.”

Brock chuckled under his breath. “True,” he said, guilt twisting in his chest. He wasn’t sure how he could ask Jack to do this. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything happened to him. Yet he couldn’t stay here and do nothing. He had to at least try.

Jack must have seen the conflict. “Stop that,” he sighed. “I get it. We owe the kid this much,” he admitted softly. “And you know I’d follow you anywhere.”

He said it so simply, so honestly. It was all a bit much for Brock.

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he mumbled, blinking against the stinging that pricked at the corner of his eyes. “Fuck if I know,” Jack teased with a smirk. Brock returned the smile, taking a steadying breath.

“Okay, now all we need is a plan.”

“I actually have one,” Jack said slowly. Brock raised an eyebrow at the man’s hesitant tone. Jack grimaced.

“But you’re not gonna like it."

 

 

 


	2. August, pt 2

  
“How could this happen?” Steve said with iron control. He stared down at the man on the screen, hands clenched into fists. “How could you let this happen?”

“I was betrayed,” T’Challa said bitterly, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked tired. At any other time, under any other circumstance, Steve would have felt sorry for the man.

“The culprit has been dealt with, however we were unable to stop the men that took your friend.” T’Challa leaned closer to the screen, his eyes hard. “We are doing everything we can to find the men responsible. We will find him, that I promise you.”

Steve nodded stiffly, not trusting his voice or temper to not say something he would regret later. The screen in front of him went black and he let out a breath he hadn’t know he was holding.

It wasn’t the Prince’s fault. The rational part of his brain knew that, but that wasn’t the part that was in primary control right now. “We’ll find him, Steve,” Sam said from across the room. “We found him once, we’ll find him again.”

“This is different,” Steve said with a frustrated sigh. “They took him, Sam. HYDRA took him and we are weeks behind them. They’ve probably already—,” he cut himself off. The thought of losing Bucky again was unbearable. “Hey,” Sam soothed, making his way to perch on the table next to Steve. “We don’t even know for sure it was HYDRA who took him.”

“Who else could it be?” Steve snapped, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “There’s a lot of people out there who’d want to get their hands on the Winter Soldier,” Sam said rationally. Steve opened his mouth to argue but the computer in front of him dinged. He frowned, opening the message. His eyebrows raised in surprise as he read.

_Hope this helps, Cap._  
_T_

“That man will never cease to surprise me,” Steve murmured as he clicked on the attached file. A video popped up, looking like security camera footage. He held his breath as it began to play.

Nothing happened for the first ten seconds and then a man walked into the frame. He wore a dark jacket with a hat pulled low over his eyes but Steve’s breath caught in his chest all the same. He knew that man. The build, the walk, the hint of a burn scar just visible along the side of his neck. “That son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“Timestamped yesterday evening,” Sam murmured as they watched Rumlow loiter for a moment longer, checking to make sure no one was following him before heading out of camera range. “Gotcha,” Steve muttered, slamming the laptop closed. “Ok, hold on Steve,” Sam reasoned. “Let’s just take a step back and—,”

“Every second we waste is another second that man has his hands on Bucky,” Steve snapped as he began to gather his few belongings and stuff them into a rucksack. “Ok but think, Steve,” Sam tried again. “We haven’t heard a whisper of the man since he broke out of the Raft and then suddenly this? It could be a trap—,”

“Of course it’s a trap,” Steve interrupted without turning around. “And we will plan accordingly but I can’t just sit here and wait, Sam. I can’t. Please don’t ask me to,” he pleaded, rounding on Sam with wide eyes. He took a calming breath. “Look, I can’t ask you to come—,”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sam snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. “All I’m asking is for you to slow down and look at all the angles. And maybe call in some backup.” Steve felt a wash of relief crash over him. “Fair enough,” he agreed. “Thank you,” he added softly. Sam just waved off his gratitude.

“Let’s go get your boy.”

 

 


	3. September

“You were right,” Brock griped as he let Jack manhandle him through the front door of the hardware store. The store itself was a front for a HYDRA base whose facility had been built underground in an expanse of catacomb-like levels.

“This is a terrible plan,” he said, glowering up at the taller man. He adjusted Jack’s jacket which was draped over his hands to hide the heavy metal cuffs strapped around his wrists.

“I never said it was a terrible plan,” Jack said in a hushed voice as they made their way to the back counter where a portly looking man sat. “I said you weren’t gonna like it.”

“How can I help you?” The man said in a bored voice. “Delivering a package,” Jack drawled. “You were supposed to be here at four,” the man said, giving Jack the first half of the standard verbal password. “I specifically said nine,” Jack said in response. Satisfied, the man jerked his head towards the swinging door that lead into the back of the shop.

A large elevator stood before them. A keyboard and fingerprint scanner to the one side. “Moment of truth,” Jack said, so quietly that his lips barely moved. He moved to type in his ID code into the keypad. Twelve digits later and a small green light flashed. Jack pressed his thumb against the little pad, waiting a beat before another green light flashed.

The elevator door opened with a ding.

The two exchanged a subtle look of relief as Jack pushed Brock inside. It had been a chance, relying on Jack’s old clearances and codes to get them inside. They had gambled on the fact that Jack was most likely down in the files as _‘Missing, Presumed Dead’._ It was better than Brock, who was probably something along the lines of ' _Traitorous Son Of A Bitch, Shoot On Sight’_. Looks like they won that bet.

Jack snatched his jacket from Brock’s hands, shrugging it back on. The elevator rattled a little as it began its decent. A moment later and the doors opened again, revealing a large room with a desk, three agents, and a heavy blast door on the other side from the elevator.

The agents were young and wide-eyed and so very green. They didn't even search them, something that Brock sneered at on the inside. “We need to find a security station,” Brock murmured as they made there way through the hallways. “Find out where they’re keeping him. Hunter, status?”

A muffled grunt could be heard through their comms, followed by a string of colourful swearwords. “I don’t like this plan either,” Hunter grumbled. “I don’t see why I couldn’t be the prisoner and Brock could be the one shoving his ass through ventilation pipes. HYDRA hates me just as much, if not more.”

“Status?” Jack said with a hint of exasperation, nodding as they passed by another agent. “Why does this base even have accessible ventilation pipes?” Hunter panted. “This is a terrible design flaw. I mean they weren’t easy to get to but still! Somebody should say something.”

“Hunter!” Brock growled. “Yeah yeah, I’m almost there. Quit your nagging,” Hunter muttered. “I’m doing this as a favour, remember,” he continued. Brock rolled his eyes as they rounded the corner and turned down another hallway. “I was perfectly happy in Denmark. There was a girl and everything. Ok, I’m in. Standing by.”

“As I live and breath,” A voice echoed from behind them. They turned to see a burly agent striding towards them. “Jack fucking Rollins. Thought you were dead.”

“Hardly,” Jack drawled, clasping hands with the man. The agent’s smile slipped a little as his eyes landed on Brock. “No way,” he breathed, looking Brock up and down. His eyes snapped back to Jack, who just shrugged.

“Never thought I’d see the day you’d turn on him,” the man said slowly. “He betrayed me first,” Jack growled, eyes growing hard. “All of us. Murdered half a dozen agents. You don’t forgive that.” Brock almost shivered at his tone. He had heard Jack use it before, but it had never been directed at him.

“Ain’t that the truth,” the man said, clearly satisfied with Jack’s answer. He turned to Brock with a nasty gleam in his eyes. “You’re in luck, Commander,” he said with a mocking tone. “You just missed General Harris. He left two days ago. I’m sure he would have planned a something special had he known you were coming.”

Brock sneered at the man as surprise coiled in the pit of his stomach. Harris was HYDRA’s number three in the command chain. “Why was Harris here?” Jack ask, sounding puzzled. The man turned back to him, excitement evident on his face. “You don’t know? Of course you don’t. It’s the Asset. He was here, not two days ago. We got him! Lost twenty three men in the process but we fucking got him!”

Brock bit back a curse. So they had been right. James had been here, but had already been moved.

They were too late.

The man grinned menacingly. “You should have heard it when they put his brain back in the blender,” he continued excitedly. “I swear, you could hear him screaming from up on the street.”

The man didn’t get another word in as Brock lashed out with a heavy boot, catching the man on the side of the knee. The man stumbled and Brock decked him across the face with cuffed fists.

The man stumbled to the side and then cursed as Brock bodychecked him up against the wall. They struggled for only a moment before the man shoved him back, hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor.

The agent reared up, blood pouring from his nose. “You little shit,” he growled, sidestepping Jack to deliver a swift kick to Brock’s stomach. He curled in on himself, gasping for air before his head snapped back as the man kicked him again, this time upside the jaw.

He blinked up to see Jack pulling the other man off him, placating him. He struggled to his knees, spitting blood towards the man’s boots. His aim was off and the bloody spit landed on the toe of Jack’s boot instead. He glanced up to Jack’s murderous face. Brock blanched. He had never seen Jack look at him like that, not even back in the beginning when they didn’t get along well. It made Brock uneasy, even if he knew it was all pretend.

Jack sneered and backhanded him across the face.

Brock knew the blow was a quarter of what Jack was capable of but it still hurt like a bitch. He didn’t even have to pretend to sell it. He grunted as his head snapped sharply to the side. A booted foot helped him all the way to the ground before planting itself between his cuffed wrists.

“You done?” Jack asked coldly, applying a light pressure to the cuffs. Brock hissed, overselling the pain. He snarled and struggled, glaring up at Jack. The younger man gave nothing away, staring impassively down at Brock as he pressed down harder with his boot. Brock bit his lip as the metal bit into his wrists. He looked away, nodding jerkily.

“Good,” Jack said and the pressure on Brock’s wrists vanished. “Bastard,” Jack muttered and Brock felt him wipe the toe of his boot on the back of Brock’s shoulder, no doubt cleaning off the bloody spit. A large hand wrapped firmly around his bicep and he was hauled roughly to his feet.

He let himself stumble in Jack’s hold as the man exchanged a few last words with the agent before dragging Brock down the hallway.

“The fuck was all that for?” Jack hissed in his ear as they rounded the corner. Brock glanced up at Jack, started to see a flash of panic in his eyes before it was smothered by irritation.

“Could you have listened to another word that asshole had to say?” He snapped. “Besides,” he continued with a smirk, showing off the keycard he had palmed from the guy. “I had a plan.”

“Okay, so what now?” Jack snapped under his breath as he marched Brock through the empty hallways. “We need to find out where Harris took James,” Brock muttered. “Hunter, we’re gonna need that distraction sooner rather then later.”

“Uhhhh ‘kay,” came the intelligent reply as Jack nudged Brock to the right. He snatched the keycard from Brock’s hands and swiped it to open a small auxiliary control room. As luck would have it, it was empty and Jack shoved Brock unceremoniously inside before closing the door behind them.

Brock slide into the chair at the closest terminal, twisting his wrists to click the release mechanism on the cuffs. They fell to the table with a heavy clunk. Brock began scrolling through files while Jack kept an eye on the security camera feed.

“Redacted, redacted. This guy’s security clearance is shit,” Brock muttered, scanning through documents. “Hurry up,” Jack hissed, eyes never leaving the camera feed. “I have no idea what I’m looking for here,” Brock snapped, pulling up another file of documents. “Brock,” Jack began, turning to face him.

A quiet beep was the only warning they had before the door was shoved open and four agents tumbled into the room. “Shit!” Brock exclaimed as Jack was grabbed from behind and dragged out into the hallway. He had enough time to stand before hands grabbed the front of his shirt and shoved him back onto the computers.

The same agent from before glared down at him, cheek swollen and bruised from where Brock had landed a punch only moments ago. “Nice try, traitor,” the man hissed as he yanked Brock around and sent him sprawling to the floor.

Brock kicked the rolling chair beside him, catching the man in the shins. “Hunter,” Brock snapped as he rolled to his feet. “I’m working on it,” came the muffled reply.

“Now, please!” Brock snapped as he ducked the agent’s flying fists. He came up under the man’s guard, slamming a fist into his gut. As he doubled over, Brock grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his knee up as he shoved the agent’s head down.

Something hard cracked into his back, right above his kidney, and Brock arched away with a curse. He slammed his elbow back without looking, feeling it connect with something hard. There was a crunch and a curse and Brock spun to face the other agent who was clutching at his broken nose, a thick baton lying abandoned on the floor.

He lashed out with a series of powerful punches, finally bringing the man down with a reverse hook kick. He grabbed a keyboard and smashed it down on the original agent’s head before felling him with another swift kick.

Brock scrambled out into the hallway just in time for Jack to bring his last opponent down with a devastating punch to the man’s jaw. The man’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed alongside the three other agents already sprawled in the hallway. Jack looked up, eyes blazing with heat as his chest heaved. His hair was mussed and his lip was bloody. He looked positively lethal.

Just like old times.

Before either of them could say anything, the building rocked and a roar echoed down the hallway. Brock and Jack lurched, struggling to keep their balance. “Hunter, report!” Brock snapped. “That’s your distraction,” Hunter huffed. “I think—,” whatever else he was going to say was cut off as a second explosion rocked the catacombs. “Oops.”

“Oops?” Brock gasped incredulously. “What do you mean ‘oops’?”

“I may have miscalculated…a little,” Hunter said hesitantly. Jack and Brock exchanged a look before taking off towards the nearest exit.

 

 

  
“A little?” Brock snapped as he revved the engine of the SUV as Hunter jumped into the back. “You miscalculated a little?” Hunter shrugged as they took off down the street. Brock glanced out the rearview mirror, watching as the hardware store began to crumble apart.

“It’s the warehouse district. Nothing that’s not HYDRA controlled for at least three blocks, I checked.” Hunter reasoned as Brock sped through an intersection. “You find anything?” Hunter asked. Brock white-knuckled the steering wheel while Jack shook his head.

They drove out of the city and kept driving until they crossed the border into Poland. About an hour later and they reached the tiny seaside town of Tolkmicko. They found a small motel and Jack checked them in, speaking easily in Polish with the little old lady behind the desk.

Brock unlocked the door and stepped the large square room. A couch sat to the left and a tiny galley kitchen sat to the right. A table with two chairs sat just beyond that, and two doors along the left wall lead to the bedroom and a small bathroom.

Brock promptly stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. He splashed cold water on his face to calm himself.

They had been so close. Two days sooner and everything would be over by now. Instead, they were too late. They now had no leads, no intel, no idea where to even start. He took a deep breath before glaring up into the mirror, taking stock of his injuries.

They were minor. A bruise was blooming on his cheek from where Jack slapped him and his jaw was tender from the kick that asshole had dealt out. He tilted his chin up, seeing another bruise starting to blossom on the underside. Thankfully nothing was more serious. He had even managed to avoid breaking his nose again.

A soft knock was all the warning he had before Jack was pushing his way inside the small space, closing the door behind him.

“Jesus, privacy much?” He grumbled. Jack didn’t pay any attention to his words, grasping Brock’s chin and turning his head this way and that. Brock winced as Jack’s grip pushed against his tender jaw. “Ow, fuck,” he snapped, slapping Jack’s hand away.

“Sorry,” Jack muttered. Cool fingers slipped back under Brock’s chin, albeit far more gentle than before. Brock huffed a sigh, allowing Jack to inspect his bruised face. Jack gingerly felt along Brock’s jaw and cheekbone, fingertips brushing feather-light against the bruise that the younger man had caused. “Nothin’s broken,” he murmured.

“Yeah, I know,” Brock snapped, pulling away from Jack’s touch again. Jack said nothing, turning to the sink. He spat blood, much to Brock’s alarm. “You good?” He asked, his earlier irritation at the man evaporating. Jack grunted with a nod, leaning to splash water on his face.

“Just a split lip,” he muttered, towelling dry his face. “Lemme see,” Brock demanded, pulling at Jack’s shoulder. The taller man turned, revealing a deep slit dissecting the corner of his bottom lip. He also sported a cut brow bone and had a bruise blooming on his temple. “Anything else?” He asked insistently. Jack shook his head. “You?”

“No,” Brock lied. In truth, the lower right side of his back where that asshole had managed to sneak up on him and get in a lucky shot was killing him. “Liar,” Jack said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Do I need to strip search you?”

“Maybe,” Brock said cheekily. He huffed a sigh when Jack wouldn’t budge, staring down at him sternly. Brock turned, hiking up the back of his jacket to reveal what he had to expect was a seriously nasty bruise. His suspicions were confirmed when Jack hissed, reaching a tender hand to brush at his back.

“Kidney shot huh,” Jack muttered. “Yeah,” Brock winced as he readjusted his shirt. “I know, I know. I’ll keep an eye on it,” he grumbled, turning back around. “Don’t play the tough guy with me,” Jack warned, eyes worried. 

“I won’t,” Brock huffed. “I promise,” he added when Jack glared at him. The muscles along the young man’s jaw jumped as he ground his teeth together. He reached out and brushed his fingertips under the bruise on Brock’s cheek again. “I’m sorry,” Jack muttered.

“It’s fine,” Brock said, brushing the apology aside. “No it’s not,” Jack swallowed thickly, dropping his hand. “Hey,” Brock said, catching Jack’s eyes. “Are you upset about this?” His eyes widened as Jack shrugged, averting his eyes. “You are,” Brock said in disbelief. “Hey, it’s fine. I’m fine. You hit me harder during sparring sessions, for Christ’s sake.”

“This was different,” Jack muttered, staring at the ground. “How?” Brock pressed, taking a step closer to Jack, which wasn’t much considering the cramped contentions of the tiny bathroom. Jack huffed, looking at the ceiling to avoid eye contact. “How is it different?” Brock pressed.

“Just forget it,” Jack snapped, taking a step back. He was now pushed up against the door and with Brock so close, there was no room to open it. No easy escape and Brock was taking full advantage of it.

“Jack,” Brock began sternly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You couldn’t fight back, okay?” Jack said sharply, finally meeting Brock’s eyes. “You couldn’t fight back and—” Jack shrugged, breaking eye contact before continuing softly. “It didn’t feel right.”

Brock stared down at the other man in mild shock, before huffing a breath that was part scoff, part laugh, and part sigh. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Come ‘ere, you big sap.”

He reached up and pulled the taller man into his arms. He felt Jack’s arms tighten around him, being mindful of his bruised back. “I’m fine,” Brock murmured, pressing his lips gently against the side of Jack’s neck.

“We’re fine.”

Jack said nothing, just tightened his hold on Brock. They stayed wrapped in each other’s arms for a long while, until a sharp knock at the door made them jump. “You guys can finish getting each other off later, I gotta piss,” Hunter drawled from the other side of the door.

Brock groaned in disgust, pulling Jack away so they could open the door. “Get your mind outta the fucking gutter,” he grumbled as he shoved past Hunter, who had a shit-eating smirk plastered on his face.

Brock collapsed at the rickety little kitchen table, opening up the laptop. He was’t even sure what he was looking for, but he scrolled through various HYDRA controlled sights and searched for important political meetings in the upcoming months. He ignored Jack as he puttered around the tiny kitchen. He could hear the shower running in the background.

He didn’t look up as Jack set a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of water next to him, along with a couple pills. Brock sighed in frustration, finding nothing helpful. “Eat,” Jack prompted, straddling the chair next to him and picking up a sandwich for himself.

“I can’t find anything,” Brock griped. Jack rolled his eyes, grabbing Brock’s hand and dumping the pills into it. Brock swallowed them on reflex, eyes never leaving the laptop. He only drank when Jack put a water bottle in his hand.

“Walk me through what you have,” the younger man prompted around a mouthful of sandwich. “Nothing, that’s what,” Brock snapped. “Or far too many options. I don’t know which.” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. Something was shoved into his hand and opened his eyes to a handful of sandwich and Jack glaring at him. He made a face but took a bite anyways.

“Lots of chatter about that EU summit happening in Estonia in October,” Brock listed, chewing slowly. “The 72nd UN General Assembly is next month. International Day of Older Persons.”

“Yeah, HYDRA’s definitely targeting the retiree community,” Jack muttered, taking another bite. “What about the Day of Peace?” Hunter asked, glancing up as Hunter emerged from the bathroom, towelling his hair dry. “The what?” Brock asked, confused.

“International Day of Peace,” Hunter said, snatching up a sandwich. “They were making a bigger deal of it this year, after everything that happened in New York and Vienna.” Brock’s fingers flew over the keyboard. He pulled up the first websight he saw, eyes scanning the headline.

_TOGETHER FOR PEACE: RESPECT, SAFETY, AND DIGNITY FOR ALL_

“September twenty-first,” Brock murmured, scanning down the article. “They’re holding an event this year for it too, in Marseille,” he said slowly. “ _‘A symbol of unity in uncertain times’_ ,” Brock quoted dryly, before a lit of names caught his eye.

“Dignitaries from all around the world are coming. Holy shit,” he muttered as he scanned the released guest list. “This has to be the target,” he said, glancing up at the two other men. “If this list is accurate—,”

“Not to mention the significance of blowing up a building of ambassadors on Peace Day,” Hunter said with a humourless chuckle. Brock glanced to Jack, who shrugged.

“Looks like we’re going to France,” Jack said simply.

 

 

  
Later that night, Brock couldn’t sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling but sleep just wouldn’t come to him. His back ached fiercely and pain stabbed his side whenever he shifted. He glanced over to Jack, who was sleeping soundly beside him. The man looked so peaceful, face relaxed and calm. His shaggy hair was clean of product and fell gently across his forehead.

Guilt welled up in Brock’s gut once again. He had dragged Jack back into this mess and if anything happened to him….

Brock shook his head, forcing his mind away from that train of thought. He slipped carefully from under the covers, pausing only long enough to dig out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his duffel bag before quietly sneaking out of the bedroom.

Hunter glanced up from his perch at the kitchen table. “Boss?” He asked quietly, but Brock just waved him down. “Get some sleep. I’ll take watch.”

“I still got another two hours before—,” Hunter started to argue but Brock wasn’t having it. “I got it. Get some sleep,” he said in a tone that brokered no argument. Hunter nodded and made his way to the couch. He pulled a blanket over himself and was snoring softly within moments.

Brock took a chair over to the kitchen window. He popped out the flimsy screen and opened the window wide, shivering as the cool night air hit his face. He took a seat and dug into the pack of smokes, popping one between his lips and lighting up.

He sucked the smoke into his lungs, releasing in the warm burn before slowly exhaling through his nose. The smoke curled out of his nostrils in twin streams before dissipating out the window.

He sat quietly as the cigarette burned down to the filter before snubbing it out against the windowsill and lighting another one.

He was halfway through that one when soft footsteps and he glanced up to see Jack padding across the kitchen. He watched as the taller man wiped sleep from his eyes with a yawn, dragging another chair over to join Brock.

“Sorry if I woke you,” Brock muttered, inhaling the nicotine deep into his lungs. “You get any sleep?” Jack asked, straddling the chair backwards and leaning against the backrest. Brock shrugged, turning his head to exhale out the window. “Take that as a no,” Jack said, reaching across and plucking the cigarette from Brock’s fingers.

Brock watched as Jack took a long drag, smoke slowly curling from his nostrils as he snuffed the smoke out against the windowsill. “Turn around,” he said, spinning his own chair around as sitting back down properly. Brock’s brow furrowed in confusion. Jack pulled out small, slender tube from his hoody pocket. Brock almost groaned in relief seeing the words _ARNICARE_ printed boldly on the side.

“Name the price, it’s yours,” Brock said as he moved to sit backwards on the chair. Jack chuckled softly and Brock felt a gentle tug at the hem of his shirt. He reached back and pulled it up with a wince. He felt Jack shift closer and flinched as something cool spread over his bruised back.

“Sorry,” Jack murmured as he gently spread the cream into the bruised skin and surrounding muscles. Brock shivered as a breeze whisked through the window and chilled his bare skin. He closed his eyes and let himself relax as Jack’s warm calloused hands worked their magic.

“Okay,” Jack said finally and Brock felt his hands leave his back. Brock shrugged back into his t-shirt. He stood and turned to find Jack also on his feet. “Back to bed with you,” Jack gestured, putting his chair back near the table.

Brock shook his head. “I'm on watch,” he said, reaching for the pack of cigarettes. Jack got there first and snatched the pack out from under his fingers. “I got it,” he said sternly. “Get some sleep.”

A yawn interrupted whatever argument Brock was going to present and he glared at Jack as he smirked. “Fine, fine,” Brock grumbled.

He gingerly climbed into bed, cautious of his back. He was convinced he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink, but didn’t even remember his head hitting the pillow.

 

 

 

 

To tell the truth, Jack was more then happy to take a double shift keeping watch. He had woken up in a cold sweat, chest heaving as he gasped for breath. Nightmares were a common occurrence for them, but it had been a long while since Jack had woken up from one to an empty bed.

To say he didn’t want to fall back to sleep, and back into the clutches of a nightmare, was an understatement. So it was an easy decision to send Brock back to bed after seeing the glassy look in his eyes and the deep circles bruised underneath them.

Jack sat in Brock’s abandoned chair, staring out over the city. He still felt agitated, riled up by dreams that he couldn’t now remember. He focused on relaxing one body part at a time, starting with his feet and slowly working his way up. By the time he had finished with that, twice, the horizon above the water was starting to brighten. He eyes had grown heavy and his head felt fuzzy.

He got to his feet with a yawn and made his way over to shake Hunter gently awake. The younger man blinked and came awake all at once, sitting up with a start. “Easy,” Jack soothed as Hunter wiped sleep from his eyes. “Take watch?”

Hunter nodded with a yawn and Jack made his way back into the bedroom. He took a moment to take in his husband, sleeping soundly on his back. Dark hair contrasted starkly against the white pillowcase and Brock’s face was soft and peaceful.

At least he thought it was peaceful. On closer inspection, Jack could see the thin lines furrowing Brock’s brow and the hand that was clenched desperately in the sheets. Jack crossed the room, reaching out to grip Brock’s ankle through the sheets. When nothing happened, Jack gave him a little shake.

Brock came awake with a start and a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed with a large Bowie knife clenched in his hand. His eyes rolled wildly around the room, slowly focusing on Jack’s face. His chest heaved and his hands trembled. “You’re good. You’re okay,” Jack murmured as he waited for Brock to truly see him, waiting for him to give a signal that he was fully awake and present. Brock blinked, staring down at Jack.

When he set the knife down on the bedside table, Jack took that as the signal. He crawled up the bed to settle down beside the dark haired man as Brock brought a hand up to his eyes.

Jack didn’t try to touch Brock. He knew from experience that it wouldn’t be welcome. So he just sat quietly as Brock struggled to control his breathing, face hidden behind his hand.

Slowly Brock’s breath evened and slowed. He scrubbed his hand over his face before sitting back up against the wall, eyes staring straight ahead.

“Nightmares again?” Jack stated, already knowing the answer but feeling the need to ask anyways. “Yeah,” was the only thing Jack got out of him. The silence stretched out between them as the birds began chirping outside the window. Jack sighed and scooted down, getting under the covers. He was determined to get at least one more hour of sleep.

He closed his eyes, listening to Brock’s breathing. He knew there wasn’t anything he could do anyways, not until Brock let him. It took a while but he felt the bed shift and the covers pull as Brock lay down again. Jack opened his eyes to Brock’s back facing him and huffed at the stubbornness of the man beside him.

He reached out a tentative hand to Brock’s shoulder, feeling the muscles tense under his touch. When Brock didn’t immediately shrug his hand away, Jack took that as an invitation. He shifted over, tucking himself snugly against Brock’s back. He wrapped an arm around the smaller man, pulling him back against his chest. His other arm ended up pillowing under Brock’s head.

It took a minute but eventually he felt Brock relax. A hand reached up and tangled itself through the one he had wrapped around Brock’s waist. Jack buried his face in the crook of Brock’s neck, pressing a kiss under the man’s ear.

Brock’s breath hitched and his hand tightened around Jack’s. “You’re good, I gotcha,” Jack murmured, brushing his thumb across Brock’s knuckles. Brock heaved a deep breath, finally fully relaxing into Jack’s arms.

Jack closed his eyes again, letting the rhythm of Brock’s breathing lull him back to sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a weird glitch where my note on chapter one keeps bumping into each new chapter. Don't mind that. Thanks again for reading and keep that feedback coming!


	4. September, pt 2

“Steve,” Sam said cautiously, but Steve ignored him. He could feel the other man’s eyes on him, worryingly. Steve sat in stoney silence, eyes fixed on the laptop in front of him. News clips showed the destruction of a three block radius in the warehouse district of Kaliningrad.

They were holed up in a motel Warsaw, having just flown in that afternoon, only to discover the devastating news. It was a question of what to do now. They had followed Rumlow to Russia and he had disappeared again. They had no leads. No idea where the man was now; if he was even still with Bucky, if he had been at the base when it collapsed.

To many questions with no answers to be had.

A knock at the door startled Steve from his musings and he and SAM were on their feet, guns drawn in an instant.

“Cavalry’s here,” a familiar voice came through the closed door. Steve and Sam exchanged a surprised look. Steve made his way to the door and peeked through the peephole. He knew that voice but he had to make sure.

He tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans as he unlocked and opened the door. Never in a million years had he expected this. “What are you doing here?” He asked in mild shock. Natasha gave him a small smile as she looked up at him. “You gonna let us in or not?” She asked with an elegantly arched eyebrow.

Steve stepped back, opening the door wider for her to enter. “But…how did you find us? How did you even know?” Steve stumbled, feeling a little off balance. Wilson raised a hand, looking a little sheepish. “Guilty,” he admitted.

Steve didn’t even have time to process this new information before Wanda was stepping past him into the room. She gave a small smirk at his gobsmacked expression, placing a small hand on his arm. “Vision sends his regards and regrets,” she said softly, stepping through the door. “Ah, thank you,” Steve said, not knowing what else to say. His eyes shifted to the third person stepping through the doorway.

“No, absolutely not,” he snapped as Clint shifted the rucksack he had slung over his shoulder. “Aw come on Cap,” Clint whined. “This is heavy.”

“You have a family. You have children, a wife,” Steve protested. “Yeah, and Laura practically kicked me out the door when she heard you needed help,” Clint interrupted. “Told me I was getting unmanageable. One too many arrows in her crown mouldings or something. I’ve got her blessing, Cap, no worries,” he said as he pushed his way past Steve and dumped the bags into the kitchen.

Steve turned to Natasha for backup, but she just shrugged. “He was going a little stir crazy on the farm,” she said before leaning closer. “He needs this, Steve,” she continued softly, cutting off Steve’s further protests. “Barnes wasn’t the only one who had his head messed with.”

That shut Steve up. He remembered all too well the first time he had met Clint, after Loki had tampered with his mind and forced him to kill his fellow agents. He had never drawn the parallels between him and Bucky before but now that it was brought to his attention, he couldn’t ignore it. So he nodded. Albeit for him to dictate how a man dealt with his own demons.

“And besides,” Clint continued, grinning widely as he revealed one of the bags was full of weapons and ammunition. He then pulled a thumb drive from his pocket. “We brought presents.”

“Rumlow is headed to Marseille,” Natasha said, crossing her arms and leaning back against the kitchen counter. Steve’s eyes snapped to her. “What?”

“Well, we think he is,” Clint continued as he pulled out various documents. “We know he crossed the border into France near Mulhouse. That was yesterday morning,” he turned to Steve with a reassuring look in his eye. “We aren’t that far behind him.”

“But why Marseille?” Sam said, adding his two cents for the first time. “How can we know for sure?”

“We…don’t,” Clint said hesitantly, making Steve’s heart sink. “But it makes the most sense.” Sam shrugged, still obviously confused. Steve was feeling very much out of the loop as well. “International Day of Peace,” Wanda said.

“They’re making a big deal about it this year,” Clint continued, tipping his chair back on its back legs. “A big diplomatic summit in Marseille on the twenty-first.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Natasha added, eyes cold. “That many dignities in one place. Prime target.” Steve nodded, contemplating this new information. He looked around at the assembled group, feeling his throat tighten. "Natasha," he said, turning to the red-head. He remembered all too well their last encounter, fighting against each other because of Bucky. She flapped a hand in his direction. "The past is in the past," she said simply. 

Steve felt a vice grip his chest and he sucked in a shaky breath. “I...don’t know what to say.” Smiles and fierce looks of determination were his answer. Steve shook his head in wonder. “Looks like we’re going to France.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god! What do you think is gonna happen? Will they be able to work together? Will it be a disaster? Will it be both?! You guys know by now I am very hard on these boys (drama and suffering unfortunately makes good storytelling) so whatever happens, you know it's not gonna be easy. As always, your feedback is my fairy dust!


	5. September, pt 3

“I spy with my little eye,” Hunter’s voice murmured through the comms. “Focus,” Brock muttered, not taking his eye from his binoculars from his hidden perch up on the roof. They had been camped out on the same street for the past two days, scoping out the area around the convention centre where the Peace Day summit was to take place.

So far the security had been top notch but that meant little. Brock had already found three ways someone could sneak into the building unnoticed, and that had been within the first two hours of surveillance.

“Remind me again why we brought him along?” Jack’s voice cracked through the comms and Brock grinned, chancing a glance down the street to where Jack was tucked into an apartment window, seemingly reading quietly. “Oh, you’d miss me if I wasn’t here,” Hunter retorted from his post at the street side coffee shop below.

“Focus,” Brock drawled again, glaring down at Hunter who was sipping his coffee like he hadn’t a care in the world. “We even sure it’ll be a bomb?” Jack asked. “Why pull the Soldier for something that any competent agent could pull off?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Brock muttered. “Secondary target would make sense. Hunter, go through the lists of the attending dignitaries.”

“I’ve checked the list, twice,” Hunter commented into his coffee mug. “Check again,” Brock ordered, feeling on edge. They hadn’t been able to find any sign of either Harris or James since arriving in Marseille. There wasn’t even an established HYDRA base in Marseille.

“Copy that, boss,” Hunter said, finishing his coffee and digging into his wallet for change. Brock frowned as he saw the man falter slightly. “Shit. We got company,” the young man said in a hushed tone. “Where?” Brock snapped, keeping his eyes trained on Hunter. “South side of the street, by the bookstore.” Brock whipped around, searching the street. “Aw crap,” he said, catching sight of a young woman with bright red hair and dark sunglasses peering in the shop window.

“North side, passing the florist,” Jack added. Brock turned, catching sight of a young couple walking arm in arm. He recognized the girl from news reports on the Avengers and of course Barton wouldn’t be far from wherever Romanoff was. “Abort,” Brock snapped, grabbing up his rucksack. “Scatter and meet back at the safehouse for—Shit!”

He turned and almost ran into a six-foot tall wall of muscle and righteousness, with blue eyes were brimming with rage.

He ducked Rogers’ first punch, lashing out with his heavy combat boot. He caught Rogers square in the chest, throwing the man back a few paces. Brock dodged to the right, heading for the stairs. He really didn’t want to fight Captain America right now. He was pretty sure that was a fight he couldn’t win.

A hand clamped onto the scruff on his jacket and he was yanked backwards. Brock felt his feet leave the ground and he was airborne as Rogers’ threw him halfway across the roof. He slammed into an electrical box, grunting as the impact radiated up his still-healing back. Jack was shouting in his comms but Brock was too busy focusing on getting air back into his lungs to respond. He barely managed to scramble to his feet before Rogers was on him again.

The fight was vicious. Brock blocked and dodged the flurries of punches and kicks with a tad of desperation. Rogers was holding nothing back and Brock knew that if one of these hits connected, it would shatter whatever it came into contact with. Finally, Brock got a lucky hit in as the heel of his boot caught Rogers underneath his chin. The man fell back, momentarily dazed but he was still between Brock and the stairs.

“Cap, you gotta listen,” Brock tried. A thump behind him made him whirl, to see Wilson landing on the roof behind him, those weird metal wings folding down into its pack. Brock fought back a groan. Two against one was not fair at all.

Brock flailed as a large arm wrapped around his throat from behind and he was yanked back against Rogers’ chest. “Cap, just—,” he gasped but the arm constricted further and then Brock couldn't breathe.

He kicked out with both legs but his boots couldn’t find perchance on the roof. Rogers’ was keeping him off his centre and off balance. Spots danced before his eyes as he watched Wilson’s stride towards them. His hands scrabbled at Rogers arm, trying every trick he knew to free himself but nothing worked. Rogers was expecting it all.

So Brock did something that Rogers wouldn’t expect. He dropped himself forward, landing heavily on his knees. He felt Rogers tip forward, unprepared for the drastic shift in weight. Brock tucked in, yanking Rogers over his shoulder to land with a thwack on his back. A heavy kick to the side of Cap’s head stunned him long enough for Brock to scramble backwards.

“Rollins, Hunter, status?” He snapped as he wrenched the door to the stairs open. He never heard the response, if there was one. There was a bright flash of red light and then Brock’s world dissolved into darkness.

 

 

 

  
Brock groaned as he slowly crawled his way back to consciousness. “He’s awake,” a heavily accented female voice reached his ears. Everything hurt. It felt like he had been run over with a semi. He tried to bring a hand up to his head but found that he couldn’t.

He came awake all at once, flaying against his restraints. He glanced up, finding both his wrists shackled on either side of his head. To a radiator, of all things. He glanced frantically around, eyes landing on the group of people sitting around the table. He knew them all.

“Ah shit,” Brock muttered, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness and nausea crashed over him. When he opened his eyes again, Rogers was sitting in front of him, perched on the coffee table. Brock huffed a sigh, wincing as his back seized. He swallowed down the nausea, looking up to meet Rogers’ hateful glare.

“Cap, just listen—,” he started. His words were cut off as Rogers’ snapped out a hand, slamming his fist across Brock’s face. Brock winced as the blow send shockwaves through his jaw. Brock licked his lip, tasting blood as he turned back to the blonde man.

“I’m trying to help—.” Brock gave up trying as Roger’s fist cracked across his face again. Spots danced in front of him and the corner of his visioned darkened. “Steve,” he heard Wilson say quietly as Brock spat blood. “Take it easy, man.”

“Where is he?” Rogers sounded calm but the bloody lip and throbbing cheek Brock was now sporting informed him otherwise. “I don’t know,” Brock said, pulling himself upright again. Rogers just stared down at him, eyes hard and teeth set on edge. “Wanda,” Rogers said. Brock tensed as the girl stepped forward. The air grew thick and Brock felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Red sparks cracked between her fingers. Brock swallowed nervously, forcing himself to focus on what Rogers’ was saying.

“You can either tell us willingly or she can rip it from your head. Your choice,” Rogers stated.

Upon reflection, Brock regretted focusing on those words. His eyes flicked from Rogers to the Witch, to the other three sitting at the table. Barton was lounging back in his chair, looking bored but his eyes were sharp. Wilson looked a little uneasy. Natasha as always gave nothing away.

“I don’t know where Barnes is,” Brock said slowly. “That’s the truth,” he added hurriedly as Rogers’ eyes narrowed. “Look, we think HYDRA is targeting the Peace Day summit,” he saw Barton and Romanoff exchange a subtle glance. They had probably come to the same conclusion, just placing the blame on the wrong person. “And let me guess,” Barton said scathingly. “You were planning on stopping them.”

“I was planning on figuring out why Harris would use Barnes for something any HYDRA lackey could pull off,” Brock growled. “There has to be a secondary target.”

“So I’m just supposed to believe that you’re…what? Fighting the good fight now?” Rogers interrupted, tone heavy with disbelief. Brock chuckled. “I don’t expect you to believe me. Believe whatever you want. I’m just trying to help,” he swallowed thickly. _In for a penny_ , he supposed.

“Look, what HYDRA did to him,” he said quietly, watching as Rogers stiffened. “It’s messed up. I couldn’t watch it happen to him again. I owe him that much.” The silence was heavy in the room before Rogers’ broke it. “You’re right,” he said stiffly. “I don’t believe you.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Brock muttered. “Look, I don’t know what else to tell you. That’s the truth.”

“Fine,” Rogers said, getting to his feet. “You’ve obviously made your choice. Wanda?” Brock tensed as the dark-haired girl stepped forward, red sparks crackling between her hands. “You stay the fuck away from me,” Brock growled, trying to hide his growing panic.

Her fingers danced and red light flashed across Brock’s vision. He blinked rapidly as the room dissolved around him.

 

 

  
Brock gasped as the cold air hit his sweat-damp skin. His hands were shackled behind his back and he was lying on a cold cement floor. He struggled to his knees, glancing around the small room with growing dread.

He knew this room.

He whirled on the Witch where she stood before him, arms hanging loosely at her sides. She seemed as startled by the change of location as he was. “You bitch,” he spat. “Get the fuck out of my head!”

“I didn’t…,” she stumbled, glancing around the small cement box. “I don’t understand,” she muttered. “Why’d you bring me here?” Brock growled, hiding the growing panic taking root in the pit of his stomach.

He couldn’t be back here. Not again.

“I didn’t,” she protested. “Bullshit!” Brock cried, struggling to control his breathing. _It’s not real. It’s not real,_ he said to himself. He repeated it over and over in his head, but it was getting difficult to convince himself of it.

It even smelled the same, that acrid scent of sweat, old blood, and fear.

“I didn’t,” the girl insisted, staring down at Brock with a mix of surprise and concern. “The mind can be unpredictable. Sometimes moments of great importance or trauma can overwhelm everything. You’re mind pulled us here.”

“Then pull us out,” Brock snapped, wrenching at his bonds as footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the room. The girl nodded, reaching towards him but it was too late.

A hand grabbed his hair from behind and wrenched his head back. “Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?” Richfield murmured in his ear. Ice crashed through Brock’s veins and his breath caught in his throat. “This isn’t real,” Brock whispered. “This isn’t real.”

He shuddered as Richfield chuckled. “Oh but it is, Commander. Don’t you know?” he drawled, hand tightening in Brock’s hair. He felt a few strands separate from his head.

“Pain is all in the mind.”

Brock choked as Richfield stabbed a cattle prod up under his ribs. Red hot pain crackled through his body as electricity friend his nerve endings. He was drowning in it, lost in the pain as his muscles spasmed.

A small hand rested on his shoulder and the room folded in on itself as a bright red light bloomed. He shut his eyes as his stomach lurched but the red light still shone behind his eyelids.

 

 

   
Brock blinked and then clenched his eyes against the nausea and the tears that pricked at the corner of his eyes. He heard a woman gasp and guessed it was the witch. “Wanda?” Rogers said.

“You okay, kid?” He heard Barton ask, sounding worried. “He’s telling the truth,” the young woman say in a shaky voice. He opened his eyes, glancing up to meet her stare, dark eyes filled with pain and guilt and confusion.

“He’s telling the truth.”

With that she turned on her heel and fled out the front door. Rogers took a step as if to follow her but Barton waved him down, getting to his feet. “I got her,” he said as he slipped out. The door closed with a click and silence filled the room again.

Rogers turned incredulous eyes to Brock, who had now composed himself. He looked up at the taller man and shrugged. “Told yah,” he said, hating how wrecked his voice sounded. Rogers seemed to be struggling, jaw muscles jumping as he clenched his teeth.

He suddenly strode out the front door, slamming it behind him with a snap. Wilson sighed, casting a look back at Brock before following him out. That just left Romanoff.

Brock cleared his throat, shifting to try and find a comfortable position against the metal grating of the radiator. “Don’t supposed you could…yah know,” he wiggled his fingers in the cuffs. Romanoff said nothing. She picked up a nearby magazine and delicately started thumbing through the pages, pointedly ignoring him.

“Great,” Brock muttered, settling in and hoping rescue would come sooner rather then later.

 

 

 

  
Steve gripped the railing of the motel balcony in an iron grip. He felt it give under his hands a little and he backed off with a grimace. He didn’t know what to think. Everything he thought he knew had been flipped on his head. How could he believe that Rumlow actually wanted to help? Footsteps sounded behind him and Sam leaned on the railing beside him.

They stood in silence for a long moment. “I can’t do it,” Steve said, peeling his hands away from the dented railing. “Do what?” Sam asked calmly. “Work with _him_ ,” Steve growled. “I mean, how canI after everything that he’s done—,” Steve choked himself off, swallowing thickly. The words tasted like acid on his tongue.

“I can’t trust him,” he said quietly. “You trust Wanda, right?” Sam asked gently. “Of course I trust Wanda,” Steve said immediately. “Then trust her to know that Rumlow isn’t lying,” Sam insisted. “That regardless of his motivations, he does want to help.” Steve just shook his head.

“The way I see it, you’ve got two choices,” Sam continued. “You can either work with him or make him tell you what he knows and the dump him in the nearest gutter. Believe me, I would prefer the second option.”

Steve turned to Sam. He saw a glint of something uneasy in the man’s eyes, like he wanted to say more but wasn’t sure how it’d be received. “But?” Steve said with a sigh. “But,” Sam said hesitantly. “Rumlow does have a lot of experience dealing with a brainwashed Barnes. And if he’s already been reprogrammed…,” Sam trailed off, allowing Steve to draw is own conclusions.

Steve clenched his jaw so tight, he could feel his teeth creak. Sam licked his lips nervously before continuing. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it. I don’t wanna say it, but he could end up being valuable. And once this is all over, there's nothing stopping you from tossing his ass back in a cell.”

Steve swallowed, reigning in his emotions. He couldn't afford to fall apart right now. He letting his breath hiss out through his teeth, feeling his shoulders sag. “You’re right,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, what?” Sam said incredulously. “Steve Rogers actually agrees with me? Willingly?” Steve rolled his eyes. “Ha ha,” he said sarcastically. “Okay, I guess we’re doing this.”

“We got your back, Steve,” Sam promised solemnly as he clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “No matter what happens.” Steve nodded, not trusting his voice. He clapped a hand in return to Sam’s shoulder before heading back up to the motel room.

 

 

 

 

 

Brock flexed his hands, grimacing at the pins and needles caused by having his arms hanging above his head for so long. His back was aching and nothing Brock did elevated the stress on the bruised muscles.

The door opened again and Rogers strode towards him, a grim look on his face. Much to Brock's surprise, the man knelt and unlocked his cuffs. As soon as Brock was free, he was grabbed by the front of the jacket and hauled to his feet. He winced as he was slammed into the wall, pain flaring up his back. His head bounced off the hideous wallpaper and he grunted, hands coming up to latch around Rogers’ thick wrists. This was more like what Brock had expected.

“I don’t trust you,” Rogers’ spat. “But I trust Wanda and she says you're telling the truth. However” His hands tightened on Brock’s collar, his tone dropping into a low growl. “You put a toe out of line and she breaks you from the inside out.”

“Fair enough,” Brock said stiffly. A beat, then the hands holding up against the wall disappeared as Rogers stormed away. Brock’s back spasmed and he had to lock his knees to keep them from buckling. He bit his lip and struggled to stay upright while not letting on the pain he was in.

“I need my phone,” Brock bite out, as the pain subsided to a dull throbbing. “I need to check in with my team.” He expected an argument, so he was quite surprised when Rogers handed it over without a word.

It rang once before Jack answered his phone. “Where is he?” He growled. “Hello to you too,” Brock drawled. There was a pause. “You okay?” Jack asked quietly. “I’m fine,” Brock assured him. “We’ve reached….an agreement," he said, briefly meeting Rogers' icy stare. Another pause. “Okay,” was all Jack said. Just like Jack to not ask for more, but Brock was sure would get a full interrogation later. “You at the safe house?” He asked, feeling the other's eyes on him.

“Yeah,” Jack acknowledged. "Okay, sit tight. I’m bringing company.” He hung up, turning to the rest of the room. “We have a safe house. We'll all fit better, if we plan on working together, that is." Everyone turned to Rogers, waiting for his decision. The blonde stared at him for a long time, eyes calculating and unreadable. Brock could practically see the mental struggle going on in the blonde's head.

“Alright,” Rogers said finally. “Lead the way”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, oh my goodness!!! And as always, feedback is my fairy dust :)


	6. September, pt 4

  
Brock unlocked the large sliding door to the old studio space he and the boys had rented out. It was in the warehouse district, above an old mechanics shop that had been long closed down. It was ideal for what they were looking for and the large open space with multiple rooms was more than enough space for so many people.

The kitchen sprawled along the left wall with a round table and a handful of chairs. A musty old couch and fold out futon holding Hunter’s sleeping bag was accompanied by a low coffee table. A large bed was tucked into the far corner, with a few items of Jack and Brock’s strewn across it. There was cot propped up against the far right wall, next to the door which lead to the bathroom.

“About time! Do you know what time it is, young man?” Hunter said, propping a hand on his hip as he leaned against the kitchen counter. Jack said nothing, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched calculatingly. His eyes flicked to Brock, giving him a quick once over.

Tension lay thick in the air as the two groups stared each other down. “Well,” Hunter suddenly declared, gesturing to the room with a flourish. “Nuestra casa es su casa.” Brock let out a long-suffering sigh. “They’ll be enough beds with someone on watch if we share,” Brock said wearily. “The futon can sleep two, same with the bed so—Ah!” Anything else he was going to say was bit off as Barton brushed past him, his heavy duffel bag slamming into Brock’s back.

White hot pain lanced up his back and he bit his lip, tasting blood as he reopened the split in his lip. He hissed, arching away from the blow. Jack started a half step forward, concern laced heavily in his eyes. “You okay, man?” Barton asked, genuinely sounding concerned.

“I’m fine,” Brock bit out, avoiding making eye contact with anyone. He himself not to limp as he made his way to the kitchen counter and snatched up some pain killers, swallowing them dry. “You come to that agreement using your face?” Jack murmured as he stole up beside Brock, eyes taking in the bruises on Brock’s face. Brock ignored him, wiping blood from his lip.

“We should compare intel,” Brock said, ignoring Jack as he turned back to the room. “Agreed,” Rogers said briskly, always the professional. They all gathered around the kitchen table. Brock and Rogers ended up across from each other while Romanoff and Barton took possession of two of the chairs. Hunter and Wanda hung back as Wilson took another chair and Jack hopped up on the kitchen counter, planting his feet on the last chair.

 

It took mere moments to figure out the plan for attacking the summit. Honestly, Brock was almost disappointed how easy it was. Between the recon Brock, Jack, and Hunter had done along with the additional intel Romanoff supplied, they were able to identify their bombers. Low level HYDRA agents, nothing special or out of the ordinary.

Romanoff splintered off with Barton and Wilson to figure out a plan to take them out while the rest tried to figure out how James fit into the equation. Brock couldn’t keep down the growing feeling of dread in his chest.

What if they had been wrong? What if James hadn’t been brought to Marseille with Harris? What if the attack on the summit wasn’t related at all?

Eventually they had run out of anything new to go over. “Okay, enough, enough!” Brock finally snapped, interrupted Rogers mid rant against something Brock had said. He ignored Rogers as he bristled, interrupting him before he could speak again. “We’re talking ourselves in circles.”

“We should take a break,” Barton said, getting to his feet with a sigh. “You got any food in this dump?”

“I’ll do a run,” Hunter offered. “Keys,” he said, making grabby hands in Brock’s direction. Brock dug into his pocket and tossed the requested item over Rogers’ head into Hunter’s waiting hands. “I’ll go with you,” Wanda offered before Rogers could protest about one of them leaving unattended. Hunter bowed mockingly, holding out a hand to allow Wanda to go first. Rogers moved off, his body radiating tension. Romanoff tracked him with her eyes before stepping off to follow him.

Brock sighed. He felt so tired. Something scrapped along the concrete floor and Brock felt a bump against his leg. He glanced down to see the chair that Jack had put his feet on now sitting next to him. He flashed a look of gratitude in Jack’s direction as he pulled the chair in front of him and straddled it.

He swiped a hand across his eyes, staring down at the endless reports in front of him. Each group had amassed a pile of information. He felt like he was going crosseyed. “What if we compare the guest lists?” Jack murmured in his ear as the man leaned over his shoulder. “Maybe they don’t match up.” Brock almost jumped. He hadn’t heard the man move, let along sneak up behind him.

“Worth a shot,” he sighed, reaching across the table to grab his printed list of dignitaries. They scanned the lists together. “Anything else I need to know?” Jack muttered, eyeing Brock’s split lip and bruised cheek. “Nope,” Brock said, shuffling through paperwork.

A few minutes later and Brock huffed a sigh. “They match,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Dammit.”

“Take a break,” Jack murmured. “Clear your head. Or take a nap. You’re exhausted.” Brock just shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said with a sigh, worrying at his lip. “There has to be something. Something that we missed,” he muttered. “We’re running out of time.”

 

 

It was dark by the time Hunter and Wanda returned, loaded down with a variety of takeout and groceries for the next day. They all ate in silence and and then dispersed into various groups. Rogers was at the kitchen table, going over everything once again. Romanoff and Wilson were with him, laptop open in front of them.

Barton and Wanda were sharing the couch, with Hunter perched on the futon across the coffee table. Both the men were cleaning their respective weapons. Brock was perched on the bed, laptop across his knees as he scrolled through various HYDRA controlled sights, trying to weed through all the chatter to find anything useful. Jack sat on the floor beside him, his Barrett 50 Cal. laid out in pieces around him.

The atmosphere was thick with tension. Both groups were untrusting of the other, however well Hunter seemed to be getting along with the Witch and Barton. The distrust ran deep, deepest with Rogers, and he was a man who was slow to forgive. Not that Brock expected him to.

Some things were unforgivable.

“Anything?” Jack murmured as he began reassembling the rifle. “Fuck all,” Brock muttered, moving on to another sight. “How’s your back?” The younger man said, attaching the barrel back into the receiver. “Sore,” Brock said shortly. “I’m fine,” he added in hopes that Jack would stop his line of questioning.

Jack, as usual, wouldn’t leave well enough alone. “I thought your back would have been mostly healed by now,” Jack commented, alluding to the increased healing ability that Brock processed thanks that that experimental serum HYDRA had forced on him without his knowledge.

“Yeah well, that’s what happens when you get tossed across a roof and a super soldier beats your face in,” Brock snapped, his irritation bubbling over. He hated it when Jack used that tone. He winched as he saw Jack’s hands go very still. He hadn’t really had a chance to tell Jack of what had happened on the roof, or after in the motel before his rescue had arrived.

“Jack, I am fine,” he said cautiously. “That fucker,” Jack growled, pushing down on the lower receiver to slam the barrel home with a loud metallic snap. “Easy tiger,” Brock chuckled, now feeling everyone’s eyes on them. “Anything else?” Jack said innocently enough. Brock hesitated. He was still a little shaken from his trip down memory lane, but now wasn’t the time for a heart to heart.

“Steve, take a look at this,” Romanoff said from the table. Brock watched as the three of them huddled around the laptop. “See that?” she murmured, pointing to something on the screen. Brock swung his legs over the edge of the bed as Jack set his rifle aside. Rogers glanced up, locking eyes with Brock. He could see the struggle waring in them before the blonde man grimaced and waved them over. “You better take a look,” he said gruffly.

Brock got up with a wince and made his way over to the laptop, leaning over Romanoff’s shoulder. He frowned, confused. “What am I seeing here?”

“Hydro usage all over the city,” Romanoff said briskly. Brock raised his eyebrows. “What?” Romanoff said elegantly. “I still have connections.” Brock smirked, looking closer at the map she had pulled up. Romanoff pointed to a particular part. “Within the last month, hydro usage spiked three hundred percent.”

“And that’s strange because…?” Barton said, having wandered over to look over Brock’s shoulder. “It’s a waste management facility. I’m sure they use a lot of—,”

“A waste management facility that was shut down four years ago,” Romanoff interrupted. Brock and Rogers exchanged a look. “It warrants a closure look,” Brock stated. Steve nodded. “I agree.”

“Just don’t expect me to shove myself through anymore ventilation pipes,” Hunter called out from across the room. “Been there, done that, never again.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Romanoff smirked. “That’s Clint’s specialty.” Brock snorted as Barton vehemently voiced his protests.

 

 

  
Hours later and the team had since returned from scouting the facility. It was definitely a HYDRA base now and they had even spotted non other than General Harris entering the building. That cinched it for Brock. James had to be there.

After prepping as much as they could for the day ahead, most everyone went to sleep. Brock sat near at the table, a mug of coffee by his hand because there was no way he’d be able to sleep with this many people around. Especially these people. Not with his predisposition for nightmares. He expected they would only be worse now, after the little field trip into his own nightmarish memory.

Romanoff and Wanda had taken the bed, while Hunter and Jack curled up on the futon. Clint had taken the cot in the corner, snoring loudly as Wilson sprawled out along the couch.

It was Rogers’ turn on watch and he sat near Brock at the table, going over the specs one more time. They sat in strained silence, neither one willing to break it. Not that they really had anything to say to each other. Better to not try, lest it spark another argument.

Brock’s eyes flicked up, seeing Jack stirring. The younger man got to his feet, cracking his back as he made his way over to the kitchen. He poured himself a mug of coffee and snatched up the tube of Arnica cream. He made his way around Rogers to the side Brock sat on.

“Shirt up,” he said quietly, setting down his mug. “I’m fine,” Brock muttered, shrugging off Jack’s concern. Jack leaned in close over Brock’s shoulder, on the opposite side that Rogers sat on. His breath tickled Brock’s ear as he whispered.

“Either take it off or I’ll rip it off.”

Brock managed not to shiver at the low growl in Jack’s voice. He hiked up his shirt without another word, revealing the bruising that now discoloured a large portion of his back. He heard Jack hiss in a breath. A gentle hand touched his side. “Damn,” Jack said in a low voice, throwing a scathing glare towards Rogers. “It’ll heal,” Brock muttered, feeling Rogers’ glaring back.

He flinched as Jack rubbed the cool cream into his sore skin. “Done,” Jack said softly and Brock felt him pull the shirt back down. Movement flicked in the corner of his eye and Brock glanced up to see Wanda making her way quietly across the floor.

“I’ll take watch now,” she said softly, laying a hand on Rogers’ shoulder. “I’m fine,” the man said, shaking his head. “Steve,” she said sternly. “Get some rest.” Steve hesitated but the girl wouldn’t back down. He finally sighed and got up from the table. Wanda gave a short nod of satisfaction and headed over to the kitchen. Jack slide into the seat Rogers had vacated, closing and pushing the laptop aside.

“You should get some sleep too,” Jack said softly.

“I’m not tired,” Brock said, taking a long sip of coffee. “I call bullshit. You need rest,” Jack insisted. “I’m fine,” Brock tried but Jack wouldn’t back down. “Brock,” he tried again but Brock interrupted him with a snap. “I said I’m fine,” he snapped, shifting self-consciously as Wanda glanced over to them.

He felt a sick feeling bubble in his stomach as he saw Jack’s eyes soften. “Nightmares?” The younger man asked quietly. “I don’t need your fucking pity,” Brock hissed. Jack exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “You’re so difficult sometimes,” he muttered as he got to his feet and wandered to the side door that led to the fire escape. Brock cursed under his breath as he heard the door close quietly. He knew Jack meant well, that he was only trying to help.

“I can help,” a soft voice made him jump. He hadn’t even seen Wanda slip into the seat Jack had vacated. “What?”

“You have nightmares,” Wanda stated bluntly. She didn't even bother phrasing at a question. Brock flushed, embarrassed and angry. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to eavesdrop?” He snapped.

“My parents were killed when I was ten.” She said it in that same blunt way, eyes staring calming at Brock. They had an eery quality to them. Something in them made Brock uneasy, like she could see too much. “Shit,” he muttered quietly. Wanda shrugged, dark eyes not leaving his face. “I can help you sleep,” she offered again. “A dreamless sleep.”

Brock hesitated. It was extremely tempting. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a sleep that was uninterrupted by a nightmare. However, the idea of this girl rooting around in his head again though, that was terrifying to say the least. Wanda must have seen his hesitation.

“It wouldn’t be like before,” she said quickly. “I won’t see anything I shouldn’t, I promise.” Brock looking at the girl calculatingly. He didn’t know the first thing about her, not to mention the fact that she was entirely unsettling. He was so tired, but the idea of her manipulating him like that was unthinkable.

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Brock said, taking a sip of coffee. “I can make you sleep,” Wanda said, leaning closer. The hair on the back of Brock’s neck prickled. “You’ll be useless to us tomorrow if you don’t rest. A liability.”

Brock swallowed thickly. “Well, when you put it like that.”

“Just relax,” Wanda whispered as Brock lay down on the futon next to Hunter, who was snoring softly. His eyes flicked nervously to where Wilson was sprawled on the couch, but the man was also fast asleep. “Easier said than done,” he muttered, eyeing the red sparks that were gathering around Wanda’s fingers. Her lips quirked as she settled a hand on his arm.

“Close your eyes,” Wanda ordered, red light wrapping up his arm and sinking into his arm. Brock took a shaky breath and closed his eyes. Red fire roared under his eyelids and he felt rather than heard a hypnotic voice whisper into his mind.

“Sleep.”

That was the last thing he remembered.

 

 

 

 

Steve stepped out of the bathroom, pulling up short as an odd sight. Wanda was crouched by Rumlow, who was sprawled out across the futon next to that other agent. Red fire sparked along Wanda’s hands as she murmured under her breath. By now he knew better than to interrupt her when she was working, regardless of how curious he was. So he waited until the fire died away and she stood. “What are you doing?” He whispered insistently.

“Helping him sleep,” she said quietly, looking down at the now-sleeping agent.

“What?” Steve asked in disbelief. “Why?” Wanda didn’t answer. She just gave him a look that Steve couldn’t begin to understand before making her way back into the kitchen to pour herself a mug of coffee. Steve heaved a sigh. He wouldn’t get anything more from her. She was that stubborn.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He knew he should get some rest but he felt too riled up to sleep. The studio was starting to feel claustrophobic so he headed out onto the fire escape for some fresh air. He leaned out against the railing, breath coming out in little puffs in the cool night air. He breathed deeply, relaxing his muscles and his mind. A rattling made him whirl and look up. It was Rollins, perched on the stairs leading up to the roof with a coffee mug clutched in his hands. 

  
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said softly. “You didn’t,” Steve replied. He leaned sideways against the railing, not completely comfortable with the man being behind him. He wasn’t sure if the other man sensed that but he climbed down the stairs to lean against the railing beside Steve.

They stood in silence for a long while, looking out over the city. It was almost peaceful, given the circumstances and the company. Finally Steve couldn’t stand it anymore. “I gotta know,” Steve finally said, breaking the silence. “Why?” Rollins looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Why do all this?” Steve exclaimed, muscles in his jaw jumping as he gritted his teeth. “Why help? Why care? And why now?”

He needed to know. Why did they decide to help now and not years ago when Bucky had been right there in front of them? When they could have saved him and so many others all that pain and suffering. He needed to know.

Rollins heaved a sigh, looking out across the rooftops. He fiddled with his coffee mug, chewing on his bottom lip. It took him so long to reply that Steve was convinced he wasn't going to get an answer from the stoic agent. 

“In our line of work,” Rollins said slowly. “You get good at following orders. It’s not your job to question, it’s your job to get it done." Steve grimaced. It just sounded like an excuse to him. Complacency in his mind was just as bad a crime. "And sometimes…,” the man continued, faltering a little before picking the words back up. “Sometimes the lines blur and it’s hard to tell if you’re on the right side of things anymore. And by then…it doesn’t matter anymore because all that does is simply surviving.”

“Someone else’s life isn’t worth ‘simply surviving’,” Steve snapped, feeling a rush of anger clawing up his chest. The man had confirmed his suspicions. They had just been cowards, too scared to stand up and do what was right. Rollins shrugged, pulling a wry smile. “Then you’re a better man than me, Cap.”

The scarred man swallowed, worrying at his bottom lip again as he seemed to become deeply lost in thought. “Look, I…what happened with Barnes,” Rollins said, so softly that even Steve had to strain to hear him.

“That was crossing the line.”

The other man turned to look at him and Steve’s breath caught in his throat. He saw reflected in the green irises the same haunted look he had seen on his friends and comrades coming home from the war so many years ago. He'd seen it in Bucky’s eyes after rescuing him from Zola and again when he found him last year in Bucharest.

He saw it every morning when he looked in the mirror.

Steve blinked and the look in Rollins’ eyes was gone. They were shuttered and guarded as he looked back out over the city. “You should get some sleep, Cap,” the man said, draining the last of his coffee as he turned on his heel and slipped back inside.

Steve look out over the roofs, wrapping his arms around himself. He had just been given a lot to think about, far more than he was capable of processing properly right now. It was always difficult to accept the fact that your perceived enemies were human and might be just as fallible and breakable as the next man.

He took another breath, feeling a yawn creep in and his jaw popped. His eyes were getting heavy and he finally admitted defeat and went back inside. Wilson was awake and waved him over to the couch as he cracked his neck. Steve stretched himself along the couch, pulling the blanket up around himself.

He didn’t even remember closing his eyes.

 

 


	7. September, pt 5

The next thing Brock remembered was opening his eyes to the rising sun streaming in through the windows. He sat up, blinking in confusion. “Sleeping beauty finally awakes,” Barton muttered as he passed by, rucksack clinking ominously on his back.

A mug of something hot was pushed into his hands and he grunted his thanks, glancing up to Jack. “How long was I out?” He inquired, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. He grimaced at the taste but it helped clear his head so he took another sip. If he was being honest, now that he was shaking off the fog of sleep, he hadn’t felt this well-resting in a long time. He couldn't even remember the last time he had slept without dreaming.

“Almost five hours,” Jack murmured. Brock stared at him in shock. “The fuck you didn’t wake me for?” He demanded. Jack shrugged. “Would have woken you sooner but she told me to let you sleep,” he said, nodding his head towards where the Witch was pouring herself a cup of coffee. As if sensing Brock’s eyes on her, she turned. Dark yet knowing eyes met his and her lips pulled into the barest hint of a smile. Brock swallowed, unable to fully understand why she had done it. Had it just been she felt guilty for seeing what she wasn’t supposed to?

He took a gulp of coffee, wincing as it burned his tongue, as Jack tossed their duffels down beside him. Brock grabbed the closest one as he glanced around the room. Rogers and Romanoff looked suited up, going over the plans one last time. Wilson was fiddling with his weird jet pack and Barton was fiddling with his arrows. Hunter was tucking a comm into his ear, already strapped.

Brock unzipped the bag, pulling out his kevlar vest. On closer inspection, he passed it over to Jack who took it with a nod. Brock stripped off his sweater, strapping the vest securely around his chest.

The next few minutes was like a well-rehearsed dance between him and Jack, one they had done many a time. Straps and buckles clicked and pulled into place, knifes slid home into their sheaths, clips checked and double checked before guns were loaded and placed into holsters. Gear was handed back and forth as it was pulled from the bags.

“You got comms?” Brock asked the room, striding towards the table as he loaded his Glock with a snap. Barton held out his hand, dumping two into Brock’s palm without a word. Brock whistled sharply, tossing one across to Jack as he tucked the other into his own ear. “Okay everyone, listen up,” Rogers called. Brock listened patiently as Rogers once again went over the game plan. He threw a quick look to Jack, standing on his right with his thumbs tucked into his vest, eyes sharp as he listened.

“Everyone good?” Rogers asked, ended the briefing. He made a point to lock eyes with every single person around the table, lingering a moment longer on Brock. Brock nodded sharply. However he felt about the man personally, Rogers was good in the field. “Alright,” the blonde said when no one spoke up. “Let’s move out.”

Brock slide on his tactical gloves as Rogers rounded the table and approached him. He raised an eyebrow as Rogers stepped close, his wide frame looming. “Let me make sure you understand how this is gonna work,” he said in a low voice, eyes hard like iron. “You and your men follow my lead. You do exactly as I say, when I say it, and nothing more. If you so much as twitch in a way I don’t like, I will not hesitate to drop you. Is that clear?”

“Crystal. Captain,” Brock replied, voice steely. He refused to back down or look away from Rogers’ cold stare. He might allow Cap point but he sure has hell wasn’t going to bare his throat and ask for permission. Eventually Rogers nodded briskly and broke eye contact. Romanoff rolled her eyes as she shrugged her leather jacket on.

Brock headed back over to Jack and Hunter, snatching up his abandoned coffee mug. “If you two are done with your pissing contest,” Jack muttered under his breath as he tossed Brock’s jacket at his face. “You calling me a bitch, Rollins?” Brock snapped, eyes sparking with mischief as he drained the last of his lukewarm coffee. “No sir,” Jack said briskly before bending close to murmur in Brock’s ear as he headed to the door.

“I’m calling you my bitch.”

Brock choked, spluttering coffee down his chin. He ignored the mix of confused and curious looks from the others as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, cheeks burning. “My ears are bleeding,” Hunter, who had been close enough to overhear, muttered as he followed Jack out the door.

 

 

 

  
Brock knew something was wrong. He didn’t know how or what, but he never doubted his instincts. It was a feeling like a cold chill at the base of his spine which slowly prickled up his back to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. He exchanged a look with Jack, noticing the younger man adjust the grip on his rifle. A nervous habit in others was a rarity in someone so highly trained and it meant that Jack had picked up on the same thing that was bothering Brock.

They had encountered minimal resistance since leaving Wanda, Wilson, and Barton to hold their escape route and provide air support if needed. They encountered a handful of guards upon entering but since then, they hadn’t run into a single person. It was a ghost town and it was setting Brock’s teeth on edge.

“Cap,” he hissed as they rounded the corner into yet another abandoned hallway. “Something’s not right.” The bastard had the audacity to ignore him. He tapped Jack on the shoulder as they reached another corner and slowed. Jack nodded, falling back and swapping places so Brock was behind Rogers, Romanoff on his side. “Rogers, listen to me,” he pushed. “We haven’t run into anybody since taking out the guards in the tower and on the doors.”

“It’s a new facility,” Rogers whispered dismissively. “They’re operations has been significantly crippled since they were revealed.” Brock grimaced. The man didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. “Cap, think! They have just retrieved their more coveted weapon,” he hissed, ignoring the warning look Rogers cast back at him. “They’re not gonna risk losing him again.”

“He’s got a point,” Romanoff murmured. “I hate to say it, but it’s starting to feel more and more like a trap.”

Rogers huffed, but his eyes wavered. “Okay, we’ll—,”

Whatever he was going to say was cut off as a thick steel door slammed down a few meters ahead of them, sealing the corridor off completely. “Fall back!” Rogers snapped as they began back peddling down the hallway. They skidded to a halt as another door slammed into place with a dull thud.

They were trapped.

Brock bit off a sarcastic quip. It wouldn’t be helpful, but he couldn’t help the glare he cast Rogers way. The blonde’s arrogance was going to get them killed. Rogers ignored him, reaching out a hand to try the only door leading out of their short expanse of corridor. Of course it was locked.

A quiet hissing noise suddenly filled the hallway as cloudy smoke began pouring from vents near the floor. “Shit,” Brock snapped, whirling around. An echoing crack reached his ears as Rogers slammed his shoulder into the door. It wouldn’t give, no matter how much weight the super soldier threw at it. Brock could hear voices yelling in his ear through the comms, but it was hard to piece together anything coherent. His head started feeling cloudy and he coughed as the gas rolled around them, drifting higher and higher.

Once he started coughing, he couldn't stop. Tears streamed down his cheeks as his vision began to blur. Across from him he saw Wilson and Romanoff fall to their knees. Rogers’ blows were weakening, even if the man remained upright.

His eyes desperately sought Jack as his legs began to weaken. The big man was doubled over as he struggled to breath. His red-rimmed eyes met Brock’s and he took a step forward but his knee buckled and he fell forward onto all fours. Romanoff and Wilson were already out cold, sprawled like discarded dolls nearby.

Brock’s legs couldn't support his weight anymore and he fell onto his side. Blurry shapes moved as men stormed through the smoke. Blue electricity sparked as the men swarmed Rogers. He fought flawlessly but there were so many bodies and Brock lost sight of him behind the crush of black tac vests.

Everything became a blurry white wash after that and then Brock felt his eyes close against his will.

 

 

 

 

Brock groaned, clenching his eyes against the pounding in his head. It didn’t help but he figured it would be worth a try. His mouth and throat felt dry and he coughed, bringing up phlegm. He tried to roll over but discovered he couldn’t move his arms. They were cuffed behind his back.

He blinked and blinked again as blurs of colour slowly took shape. The first thing he saw was Rogers, kneeling next to him with his hands cuffed in those heavy duty mag-cuffs. Next in the line came Wilson, struggling to his knees. Beside him was Jack, watching him with calm eyes that masked any concern the man felt.

Brock got his knees under himself and raised himself up. He groaned as the room spun. He tested his restraints but they wouldn’t budge. He had also been stripped of his gear. Even his comms had been taken. “Fantastic,” he muttered. “Great work, Cap.” Rogers gave him a dirty look, although Brock thought he saw unease and maybe a little guilt flicker in the man’s eyes. Before either could say more, the door opened and a well dressed man with slicked back hair stepped through, followed by three armed agents.

General Harris’ pale eyes flicked over them all before landing on Rogers. “What a pleasant surprise, Captain Rogers. I’m so glad you could join us today,” he said in a silly voice. “Where’s Natasha?” Rogers growled. “What have you done with her? Where is she?”

“None of your concern,” the man said, flapping a hand dismissively in Rogers’ direction. “You must forgive me, Captain, but I have more immediate business to take care. Not to worry. You’ll soon have my undivided attention.” With that, he turned his gaze to Brock. “What a disappointment,” he said, taking a lazy step towards Brock. “I expected so much more from you, Commander. You had such potential. Such promise. I could hardly believe it when they told me of your betrayal.”

Brock could feel Rogers’ eyes on him but one thing at a time. He shrugged. “What can I say? The benefits were shit,” he drawled. “You think you’re so clever,” Harris said patiently. “Always have to have the last laugh, don’t you?” He took a step forward, clasping his hands in front of him gleefully.

“We couldn’t have set a better trap. Really, we were only going after you, Commander.” His eyes shifted back to Brock. “We knew if we could get the Soldier, we could lour you out of hiding. You and your newly found sense of morality. So we planted a trail, leading right here.” The man opened his arms wide in a grand gesture, like some sort of deranged showman. “So there isn’t a bomb,” Rogers commented. “Oh no, there is a bomb,” Harris assured him, a nasty gleam in his eye. “Had to make it seem authentic. But the Summit wasn’t the real target. And when we learned that Captain America himself had followed you here, well,” Harris bared his teeth in a vicious smile. “Two for the price of one, really.”

Brock was bored with this man already. “Seems like a lot of resources to throw at little ol’ me,” he drawled. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered. Just surprised that General Mathews would authorize such a use of resources.”

“General Mathews is dead,” Harris said in a nasty voice. “Unfortunate accident, really. Break lines can be so…fragile, don’t you know. No, I’m running this show now. And I feel like this is an excellent use of resources. Nobody betrays HYDRA and lives. It sends the wrong message,” He added with a smarmy smile before nodded to the guards.

They opened the door and there he was.

Silhouetted and dressed all in black, James made for a very imposing silhouette. His pale eyes stared cooly over the black half mask that wrapped around the lower half of his face. He was armed to the teeth. The light gleamed off the sleek silver left arm. Brock frowned. It looked different than he remembered. The plates were different, a more streamlined design. As he stepped further into the room, Brock could see it was missing its telltale red star on the bicep.

At a second inspection, the kid looked terrible. His hair hung lank around his face and dark circled bruised heavily under red-rimmed eyes. Brock felt Rogers stiffen beside him. “Bucky,” the blonde man breathed. “Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve.”

“Oh, he doesn't remember you, Captain,” Harris drawled nastily as James continued to stare blankly ahead of him. “Not anymore at least.” Harris smirked. “We took care of that. He is ours once again. He will help restore us to our former glory and—,” He stopped, interrupted as Brock snorted rudely.

“Please just kill me now. I don’t think I can listen to the whole super villain speech.” Brock drawled. He saw Jack smirk out the corner of his eye. To Brock’s surprise, Harris chuckled. “I’m not going to kill you, Commander. Not yet, anyways. That’d be too easy.” He smirked, causing Brock’s stomach to ripple with unease.

“No, I want you to suffer.”

Harris snapped his fingers, pointing to Jack, and then James was moving. He grabbed Jack by the hair and dragged him into the centre of the room. Brock lunged forward with a growl but the guards were on him. He could see Rogers out the corner of his eye as he wrenched against his restraints. The other guard took a step forward, aiming his weapon pointblank at Roger’s head.

“I blame myself,” Harris said with a sigh. “For not seeing it sooner. For not recognizing the signs of betrayal. I was blinded by your perceived loyalty.” He stared down at Brock, pale eyes hard. “But what comes next…you’ve only yourself to blame for this. Soldier,” he said, straightening the cuffs of his suit.

“Left knee.”

James unholstered his side arm. A loud gunshot cracked through the room and Jack cried out, knees buckling as he crumpled to the ground. “Jack!” Brock lunged forward against his guards. “You piece of shit!” He yelled, eyes brimming with hate and fear as he glared up at Harris.

“Choices have consequences, Commander,” the man said cooly. “You chose to betray HYDRA. To kill your own men. Your choice. And now you have to deal with the consequences. Right shoulder,” he added, eyes never leaving Brock’s. There was another bang and Jack spun sideways, landing heavily with a choked groan.

Brock screamed Jack’s name, thrashing against the guards. They pushed him to the ground, pinning him down. Brock kicked out, feet unable to find purchase on the smooth floor. A hand gripped his hair and smashed his forehead down against the concrete. He gasped, seeing stars. 

The hand in his hair pulled him back to his knees and he looked up into Harris’ cold face. “Fuck you,” Brock spat, blood dripping down his face. “Oh no, Commander,” Harris said, almost pleasantly. “Fuck you.”

He backhanded Brock viciously across the face. It stung like a bitch but was more degrading than painful. He looked up, chest constricting as James yanked Jack back up to his knees. He swayed in the man’s grip. The colour had drained from his complexion and blood was soaking through the shoulder of his jacket and pooling under his knee. Harris grabbed Brock by the hair again, yanking his head back cruelly. Harris’ voice was soft, almost gentle as he whispered in Brock’s ear.

“You really think we didn’t know about the two of you?”

His words felt like ice water washing through Brock’s veins. “The only reason we allowed such disgusting behaviour was because you were both integral parts to the bigger picture. But now you’re both useless to us.” Harris was saying something but Brock wasn’t paying attention. All he could focus on was James’ fist as it smashed across Jack’s face, again and again. 

Someone was screaming and it took him a second to realize that it was himself. “James, please!” Brock begged. “Don’t. James, James! Come on, kid. Fight it. You can fight this!”

“Shut him up!” Harris barked and one of the guards smashed his fist across Brock’s face before swiftly kicking him in the stomach. Brock gasped as the breath rushed from his lungs and he collapsed forward.

“That’s enough, Soldier,” Harris said and James stepped back. Brock looked up, blinking through the tears and blood to see Jack sway forward, his face a mess. His eyes met Brock’s, something akin to acceptance reflected in the green irises.

“Jack,” Brock gasped.

“It’s okay,” Jack whispered.

“Kill him,” Harris ordered.

“No, no, no, no,” Brock moaned. He renewed his struggles against the guards but they kept him pinned firmly to the floor. “No, Jack!”

A vicelike grip coiled around his chest and he couldn't breathe as he watched James raise the gun again, nestling the barrel between Jack’s eyes. “It’s okay,” he heard Jack say, but this time he wasn't looking at Brock. He was looking at James.

“It’s okay kid,” he said softly.

“Jack!” Brock cried as James’ finger tightened around the trigger.

BANG!

 

 


	8. September, pt 6

BANG!

Brock gaped as James’ arm snapped behind him and without even looking shot Harris through the head.

Everyone froze. No one even breathed.

The guard by Rogers took a step forward, weapon rising. BANG! Brock could have blinked and missed it, James moved so fast. Brock flinched as warm liquid splattered on his face and the two men holding him fell with muffled thuds to the floor.

Brock struggled to his knees, looking up at James who stood like some avenging angel in front of him. His hand trembled around the gun’s grip and his eyes stared hectically down at Brock, as if waiting for something.

“Bucky,” Brock heard Steve say softly. James’ eyes flashed to the blonde, recognition and more than a little fear reflected in his pale eyes. “It’s over, Buck. You can put the gun down now,” Steve whispered but James was already backing away. “Bucky, don’t!” Steve cried but it was too late.

James was already gone.

Brock couldn’t dwell on it. All he had eyes for was Jack, who was now collapsed on the ground in an ever growing pool of red.

He rolled to the side, fingers fishing in the agent’s pockets. His fingers closed around a set of keys and relief washed over him. It took seconds to maneuver the release mechanism and free his wrists. He had just enough sense to toss the keys towards the others, albeit a little blindly.

He got his feet underneath him, almost falling as vertigo hit him like a ton of bricks and the room spun haphazardly. He half stumbled, half ran to fall on his knees beside Jack.

“Jack,” he whispered, gently rolling the other man other. “Come on Jackie, please.” He gasped in relief as Jack groaned low and deep in his throat. Footsteps echoed in the hall and he spun on his heels, adrenaline spiking but it was only Romanoff. Her eyes scanned the room before landing on him and Jack. Brock ignored her. He ignored Rogers’ as the man beelined it out after James. He ignored Wilson’s calls and curses to the blonde before he hurried out after him. He ignored the strange ripping sound that echoed in the small room.

Small hands pushed long strips of silky fabric into his and he looked up startled. Romanoff’s eyes were unreadable as always as she gave him the strips of fabric she had cut from Harris’ suite. She got busy binding Jack’s shoulder. Brock stared at her dumbly before moving to get to work on the leg. Jack convulsed with a choked cry as Brock tied the makeshift bandage tight. “I know, darlin’. I know,” Brock muttered, the endearment slipping out before he could stop it.

“We need to move,” Romanoff said softly yet insistently, eyes sharp as they looked at him. “You got a plan?” Brock grunted as he dragged Jack into a more upright position, slinging the man’s arm over his shoulders. “Well—,” she started, only to be interrupted by a huge explosion that rocked the building.

“They’ll be busy with that for a while,” she added, pulling Jack’s other arm over his own shoulders. Jack groaned as the movement pulled on his shoulder wound. “I know, Jackie,” Brock soothed. “Let’s get you outta here.”

 

 

 

  
“Clear that table,” Brock snapped as they all stumbled into the safe house they had set up. Steve had met back up with them once they left the building, having been unsuccessful in chasing after Barnes. Hunter swept an arm, clearing everything onto the floor. With Steve’s help, they got Jack up on the table. Romanoff stepped out, phone to her ear. Brock couldn’t care less what she was up to.

Jack groaned, fluttering in and out of consciousness from the blood loss. “You hang in there, you hear me?” Brock muttered as Hunter yanked the medkit out from under the sink and opened it up on the table between Jack’s legs. “No one’s dying today.”

He pulled on gloves and accepted the blunt-tipped scissors Hunter passed him. He undid the makeshift bandages from Jack’s shoulder, efficiently snipping away Jack’s jacket and shirt while Hunter set Jack up on an IV fluid drip. The bleeding had stopped for the most part. Brock gently lifted the man’s shoulder, feeling for the exit wound. Jack gritted his teeth, jaw muscles jumping. It was a simple through and through, happening to miss the bones and any major arteries.

“Let’s pack it for now. Deal with the leg first,” Brock said, ignoring the others as they hung back, awkward and seemingly unsure how to help. Hunter took Brock’s place by Jack’s shoulder, the IV bag tucked under his chin. “Someone hold this,” Hunter called as Brock passed him gauze pads and tape.

Wanda was the one to step forward, taking the bag from Hunter’s shoulder and holding it high. Brock cut away the tourniquet and looked at the damage. It had buried into the thick muscle above the knee joint, again missing any major arteries or bone.

There was just one problem.

“Shit,” Brock muttered. “What?” Hunter snapped. “No exit wound,” Brock said briskly, riffling through the kit for a scalpel and forceps. “There morphine in that kit?” Hunter asked, finishing the temporary patch on Jack’s shoulder.

“No,” Jack croaked, struggling to sit up. “Don’t move, idiot,” Brock chided, placing a firm hand on Jack’s chest. “No morphine,” Jack muttered. Brock swallowed, taking in Jack’s battered face. His left eye was almost fully swollen shut. Bruises were beginning to blossom along his jaw and cheek. His nose was probably broken and his lip was split wide open. Blood was caked over most of his face.

“Jack,” Brock started, licking his lips nervously. Jack was already shaking his head, eyes looking up at Brock pleadingly. “The bullet’s still in your leg,” Brock said quietly. Jack’s eyes stared hotly into Brock’s, a small spark of fear reflecting in the green irises.

“No. Fucking. Morphine.” He bit out between clenched teeth.

The panic in those eyes, buried behind the pain, caught Brock and held him fast. “Okay,” Brock finally said, placing a calming hand on Jack’s arm. “Okay, no morphine.” He could feel Hunter’s shocked eyes on him, along with everyone else in the room. “He’s in pain, man,” Wilson objected from the sidelines. Brock ignored them all, sliding the blade into the handle of the scalpel.

“He’s gonna need the morphine,” Hunter muttered under his breath, but Brock shook his head. “He can’t,” he said softly. “I don’t understand,” Hunter pushed. “He’s not allergic—,”

“Drop it!” Brock snarled. Hunter closed his mouth with a snap, adams apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“I can help,” a soft voice spoke up.

Brock looked up to Wanda, where she stood clutching the IV bag in her hands. “I can help,” she said again, her dark eyes calmly holding Brock’s. He hesitated, then nodded. Wanda stepped up to stand at Jack’s head, giving him a small smile. Barton stepped over to take the IV bag as Wanda placed her hands on either side of Jack’s head.

“You ready?” Brock asked under his breath. “Just get this over with,” Jack grumbled, relaxing his head into Wanda’s hands and closing his eyes. Brock picked up the scalpel, removing the blade guard as he took a steadying breath. “Okay, hold him still,” he said, removing the gauze pad from Jack’s leg.

Rogers and Wilson each held a leg while Barton took hold of Jack’s other shoulder. “Deep breath,” Brock murmured, more for himself than for Jack, and got to work. He felt Jack arch against the hands holding him with a muffled groan but then suddenly relax. Brock glanced up to see Wanda face twisted in a look of pain and concentration, red energy glowing around her hands. The air seemed to crack with electricity.

It didn’t take long but it felt like an eternity. “Got it,” Brock gasped, finally holding up the bullet fragment. Thankfully, it was intact. Wanda lifted her hands, breathing heavily. “I think I need to sit down,” she said in a weak voice. Barton grabbed her arm, passing the IV bag to Rogers before helping Wanda over to the couch.

“Swat found the bomb,” Romanoff murmured as she slipped back inside. She continued talking but Brock didn’t focus of anything else she or Rogers said. He set down the scalpel, clapping a gauze pad on the wound, glancing reassuringly at Jack. “Almost done,” Brock promised as he threaded a needle with surgical thread. “Okay, little pinch.”

Jack hissed as the needle pierced his skin. “Easy,” Brock muttered as he tied off the first stitch.

It didn’t take long to stitch and bandage Jack’s leg. By the time he finished taping it, Hunter was done cleaning Jack’s shoulder and had begun to stitch it. Brock got to work cleaning the blood from Jack’s face with an alcohol wipe.

“Sorry,” Brock said as Jack flinched when the alcohol came into contact with the split in his brow. He swallowed thickly as a pained gasp slipped from Jack’s lips as Hunter pulled the needle through his skin. He placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder, also helping to keep him still.

The more blood came away, the more Brock could see the nasty bruising and swelling along the side of the man’s face. He took a breath, shoving any sort of feelings and emotions to the back of his mind. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart. He felt along Jack’s face, relief washing over him as he didn’t feel anything broken.

Brock helped roll Jack onto his side so Hunter could work on the exit wound. He murmured comforting nonsense, gently cradling Jack’s head as Hunter got to work. Jack’s jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth, hand fisting in the front of Brock’s shirt. “Done,” Hunter finally said, taping a gauze pad over the wound.

“Come on, Jackie. Up you get,” Brock said as he felt Jack shiver. Shock was beginning to set in and the faster they could get him comfortable and warm, the better. Together, Hunter and Brock got Jack out of his bloody clothes and into a pair of sweatpants.They dragged the cot over into the kitchen and tucked him into it under a thick blanket. Just in time. The last ounce of energy Jack had drained as Brock pulled the blankets around him and his eyes fluttered closed as he finally lost consciousness.

Brock frowned as he took in at the waxy and ill-looking colour of Jack’s skin, the shallow and rapid way he was breathing. The man had lost a lot of blood. Brock laid a gentle hand on Jack’s forehead, feeling the cold and clammy skin. Jack’s eyes fluttered at the touch, but fell closed again.

“Anyone here AB-negative?” He asked the room, knowing the chances were slim to none. Of course the man had to have one of the rarest blood types. He couldn’t see Rogers or Romanoff. They must have taken off at some point but they wouldn't be able to help anyways. Rogers had his crazy serum-infused blood and he knew Romanoff wasn’t a type match.

“Universal donor,” Barton said with a raised hand and Brock felt a rush of relief flood through him. Within moments, Barton was situated at the kitchen table, a bright scarlet line attaching him to Jack.

Brock could feel his hands starting to shake. His body was coming down from the adrenaline high he had been riding. He almost jumped as a hand clapped onto his shoulder. “I’ll watch him,” Hunter promised. “Go clean up.”

“I’m fine,” Brock said. He clenched his hands into fists, but it didn’t stop them from shaking. “You’re face is a mess, boss,” Hunter chided. “And your clothes are covered in blood.” Brock sighed and nodded, no longer having the energy to argue. Plus, he knew Hunter was right. He snatched up a new shirt and jeans and headed into the bathroom.

Brock leaned against the sink, struggling to keep his breathing even. He glanced up into the mirror, grimacing at his reflection. The front of his forehead was bruised in a mangle of purple and red and a little swollen. The top of his nose was split open, blood caked and dried down the side of his face.

All he could see when he looked at himself was Jack’s bloody face staring back at him. He tightened his grip on the sink, trying to stop his hands from shaking. When that didn’t work, he splashed cold water on his face. It didn’t help.

He could still see the gun barrel pressed against Jack’s head…

…James’ finger tightening on the trigger…

…James’ fist smashing into Jack’s face over and over and…

Pain laced through his hand as Brock cracked his fist into the mirror. The glass splintered in a spiderweb pattern, imbedding shards in his knuckles. “Fuck,” Brock snapped under his breath.

He stepped out of the bathroom, changed and face clean of dried blood. Romanoff and Rogers were still missing. Wilson had since vanished as well. Wanda was napping on the couch while Hunter rummaged around the kitchen.

He tossed his bloody clothes into the pile with Jack’s, dragging a chair over to sit beside the cot. Barton sat in front of him, arm resting on the table as blood trained through the line down to Jack. “Here,” Hunter said, placing sandwiches and bottles of water on the table. “Eat. Drink. Both of you.” He placed a couple pills next to Brock. “And you take these.”

Brock said nothing as he reached for the pills, flinching as Hunter grabbed his wrist. “Jesus, Boss,” he groaned as he took in the messy Brock had made of his knuckles.

“It’s fine,” Brock snapped. He yanked his hand back, conscious of Barton’s eyes on him. “There’s glass imbedded in your knuckles,” the younger man hissed, digging through the medkit on the table to find tweezers.

He winced as Hunter got to work, pulling the shards of glass out from under his skin. Finish with that, Hunter quickly swiped an alcohol wipe over the cuts. “Stay still,” Hunter snapped as Brock flinched back as the man reached for his face. He cleaned Brock’s face before peeling a butterfly bandage to keep the cut on his brow together.

“I’ll get you some ice,” he said, collecting the scraps and moving off. Brock took a shaky breath, looking down to Jack. He felt numb, taking in his husband’s bruised face. Hunter placed a bag of ice in the table, glaring at Brock until he swallowed the pills and picked up the sandwich.

 

 

  
About an hour later and they detached Barton from Jack. Rogers returned, Romanoff and Wilson in tow. They gave Brock space, congregating in the living room. That was fine by him. He was done. He tried to help and look what had happened.

He had screwed up and once again it was Jack that had suffered. Guilt fizzed like acid in his stomach and threatened to choke him. His eyes stung something fierce and he rubbed a hand hastily across them. He was so tired. He would just close his eyes for a minute.

When Brock opened his eyes again it was dark outside and everyone else was asleep. Everyone besides Barton who was perched in the large window across from the couch. Someone had draped a blanket over Brock while he slept. He winced as his neck twinge, protesting the awkward sleeping angle. He stretched, wiping sleep from his eyes.

Brock’s heart skipped when he opened his eyes again to see that Jack’s were open as well. “Hey,” he whispered, getting down on his knees so he could be closer. Brock glanced over briefly from his perch but left them alone.

“You look like shit,” Jack muttered. Brock gave a rough chuckle. “Seen a mirror lately?” Brock teased back, pushing down the sick feeling in his gut at seeing Jack like this. “I heard you found a mirror,” the younger man said, eyes sharp as they took in Brock’s face. “How’s the hand?”

Brock said nothing, flexing his injured hand. His first two knuckles were starting to bruise. “I’m fine,” he said softly. “Liar,” Jack said immediately. Brock huffed, a smile tugging at his lips in spite of himself. Jack had that way with him. He knew him too well.

“You okay?” Jack murmured, reaching a hand towards the back of Brock’s. Brock flinched back as Jack’s searching fingers brushed against his wrist. Immediately Jack’s gaze shuttered and Brock felt his heart drop.

“So we’re back to that then, are we?” Jack said softly.

“No, Jack, I…,” Brock fumbled but Jack had already pulled his hand back. Brock huffed, pulling his sleeve up to reveal the chaffed and torn skin around his wrist, caused by the cuffs Brock had wrenched against. Jack’s eyes softened immediately. Brock swallowed, gripping Jack’s hand as the younger man reached for him again.

“I’m so sorry,” Brock whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry. I fucked up as usual and look what happened, I…,” he choked himself off as his throat tightened. Jack shushed him, reaching to brush his fingers across Brock’s cheek. Brock captured that hand in his, holding it close. “When Harris said to….I didn’t…I…” To his embarrassment, tears pricked at his eyes and blurred his vision. He felt Jack squeeze his hand. “You scared the shit out of me, Jackie,” he whispered, feeling a single tear escape his eye and course down his cheek.

“Sorry,” Jack whispered, cracking a small smirk. “It’s not funny,” Brock snapped, scrubbing at his face and wincing as he brushed his sore nose. “I almost got you killed. Again.”

“Bullshit,” Jack glowered and Brock flinched.

Jack’s eyes softened even further and he brushed his thumb across Brock’s knuckles. “Nothing was your fault and you know it.” Brock just shook his head. It was his fault and nothing that Jack could say would change his mind. “As soon as you’re stable I’m booking us tickets back to Indonesia,” he said, clearing his throat. “We should never have left.”

“I know you don’t mean that,” Jack said softly. Brock felt a little pinned by the man’s gentle gaze. “They find the kid?” Brock shook his head, not trusting his voice anymore. “Then we can’t leave,” Jack said simply. “Jack,” Brock began to protest but now it was Jack’s turn to shake his head. “We can’t and you know it,” he said firmly. “We owe it to him.”

“Yeah,” Brock said. “Yeah we do.” He cleared his throat, seeing Jack struggling to keep his eyes open. “Just sleep,” he soothed, brushing a stray hair back from Jack’s bruised forehead. “We’ll figure it out later.” He glanced up at Barton but the man seemed to be pointedly staring out the window.

“I got you,” Brock murmured, combing his fingers gently through Jack’s hair as the man’s eyes fluttered. “Just rest. I got you.” He kept up the soothing mantra until Jack’s eyes fluttered for the last time and his breathing evened.

Brock pulled the chair closer, settling in for a long night. He propped his legs up on the table and draped the blanket over himself again. He draped the corner of it across Jack’s arm, slipping his hand underneath to discretely interlace his finger’s with his husbands.

He only had eyes for Jack, so he didn’t notice the long look Barton sent their way from his perch in the window.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the wonderful support for this series!


	9. September, part 7

Jack woke in a drowsy haze to sharp voices arguing a few feet away. “What do you mean _he’s gone_? Where is he?” someone snapped angrily. “I. Don’t. Know.” A familiar and very annoyed voice bit as Jack blinked sleep and dark spots from his eyes. Or eye, considering he seemed to only be able to open one. The other refused to cooperate and it hurt to try.

He could see that Rogers was practically vibrating with rage, fists clenched as he got up in Hunter’s face. “I woke up and he was gone, same as you,” Hunter growled. “And I’m just expected to believe he snuck out under all of our noses without anyone noticing?” Rogers snapped, taking a step closer. “You need to back off,” Hunter said softly, eyes sparking and hand straying towards the small of his back. Before anything could escalate, Barton clapped a hand on Rogers’ shoulder, murmuring something that seemed to calm the man down enough to stalk across to the other side of the room.

Hunter’s eyes flicked to Jack’s, widening a bit upon seeing him awake. “About time, Sleeping Beauty,” Hunter said with a gentle smirk, all indication of his previous irritation gone. “D’nt fuckin’ call m’ a princess,” Jack murmured, words slurring a little as he tried to sit up. Pain flared across his leg, cracking across his stomach and ribs, biting fiercely up into his shoulder.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t try that,” Hunter scolded, gently pushing Jack back down. He peaked under the bandages, seemingly satisfied with what he saw. “Incisions look good, if I do say so myself,” Hunter said primly, checking Jack’s IV bag.

“Where is he?” Jack slurred as his vision began to darken around the edges. He pretty much got his answer by the way Hunter avoided his gaze, even has the younger man’s face swam and blurred. A flush of panic crashed through him as he slipped into the void again.

“Where’s Brock?”

 

 

At that moment, Brock was making his way up a rickety metal staircase to the rundown apartment on the outskirts of Savona that STRIKE Alpha had set up as a safehouse. It was the best idea he had and it really wasn't a very good one. He acted on the sliver of a chance that Barnes had retained enough from his splintered memory to know this place existed, that it would be safe, and that he had even headed East. He could have easily headed in any other direction.

“Fuck you doing?” Brock muttered to himself as he punched in the code and scanned his fingerprint into the hidden panel under the doorbell. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be back on a beach, a cold beer in hand and Jack beside him. Hadn’t he gotten sappy in his old age.

He slipped inside, gun held easily before him. He swept through apartment, finding only dust and cobwebs and white cloths covering the few pieces of furniture. “Damnit,” he muttered in disappointment, heading back towards the door. It had been a long shot at best but he had still held out on the small chance.

The soft swish of displaced air was the only warning Brock got before a hand gripped the back of his head and he was shoved forward. His forehead slammed sharply into the doorjamb and Brock’s vision crashed into black.

 

 

Brock groaned softly as consciousness slowly fluttered back into existence. He pulled himself upright, unsurprised to find his hands cuffed to the radiator behind him. He blinked blood from his eyes as he squinted across the room to find who else but fucking James Barnes sitting in one of the armchairs, staring at him intently.

Brock licked his lips, tasting copper. His head hurt, a lot. He really needed to stop getting hit on the head so much. Brock closed his eyes against the pounding that thrummed against the front of his skull, leaning his head back against the cold metal of the radiator.

A few deep breaths later and he got enough control over the pain to open his eyes again. The shaggy haired man hadn’t moved an inch. Probably hadn't even blinked. He just sat there, hunched in on himself, still in the black tac gear those pricks had shoved him into. The muzzle was missing, something Brock was very grateful for.

“Hey kid,” Brock said softly.

The staring contest continued. Brock sighed, shifting a little and wincing as the metal bit into his wrists. “You don’t look so good,” Brock continued, doing his best to not squirm under the icy gaze. “When was the last time you ate something? Or slept for that matter?” James said nothing, just kept staring. Brock licked his lips nervously. "You remember-," 

“I remember.”

Brock blinked. “Oh yeah?” James’ throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly. “They didn’t have time to wipe me. I remember everything.” Brock frowned, remembering one of the agents bragging about how much the asset had screamed when they had ‘ _Put his brain back in the blender_ ’. “But…” Doubt slipped past Brock’s lips before he could stop it.

James must have read the look on his face, understanding at least in part what Brock was thinking. “Anaesthetic doesn't work on me anymore. My increased metabolism burns through it too fast.” He held up his left hand, the dull light from the nearby lamp glinting off the new silver metal. His lips twisted into a nasty smirk. “Hurt like hell. Lost my voice eventually.”

Brock flinched, swallowed nervously. “So how—,”

“How’d they muzzle me?” James said bitterly. “They knew the words. All they had to say was the goddamn words.” He choked himself off, glancing away.

A lull came over the conversation, one James seemingly wasn't keen on breaking. Brock shifted, noticing how sore his wrists were becoming. “You mind?” He said, raising his arms as high as he was able. He didn't miss the way James hesitated a fraction before crossing the room to remove the cuffs.

“So if you remember everything, what’s with the cuffs?” Brock asked as James moved away to the tiny kitchen. “And the nose job,” he added, gingerly feeling along his face, fingers coming away tacky with drying blood from his nose and a split eyebrow.

Tension lines showed across the younger mans shoulders, even through the heavy black leather. “I wasn’t sure…,” James faltered. “I needed to know your intentions.” Brock pushed himself up to his feet, puzzled. If James remembered everything, surely he knew that Brock had no intention of returning him to those shits. Then the pieces slowly clicking into place.

“What happened with Jack wasn’t your fault,” he said smoothly as he flopped into a nearby armchair, wrinkling his nose at the cloud of dust he produced. He knew he had hit the nail on the head as James flinched, hiding it by cracking his neck from side to side and rolling his shoulders. “I’m not here for revenge or some shit like that.”

“Then why are you here?” James asked sharply.

Brock huffed. “Look, Rogers is practically crawling the walls with worry, in fact the whole team is here trying to find you. Even Jack is refusing to go home until we get you back.” He could see the stress in the younger man mounting, almost palpable in the room.

“This was why I went back on ice in the first place,” James said quietly. “So something like this wouldn't happen again.”

“I know,” Brock replied softly but James didn't seem to hear him. “I can’t go back.” His voice was so soft that Brock had to strain to hear him. “Too many people have died already because of me.”

“And where would you go?” Brock said, crossing the room to join James in the kitchen. He moved carefully, making sure not to startle the man as he grabbed a dishtowel and ran it under cold water. “I don’t know,” James replied quietly as Brock began dabbing at his face. “Look,” Brock said, wincing as his hand brushed against the blossoming bruise across his forehead. “All I know is that you have people who care about you, who are literally risking everything to find you. Don’t just throw that away.”

James shot him a look, eyes icy and hard. He opened his mouth to say something but never got the chance as the windows imploded, showering glass shards everywhere.

 

 

 

The next time Jack woke up, it was dark outside. A silhouetted figure sat perched in a nearby window. The loft was dim, the orange streetlights throwing long shadows across the room. Jack coughed, his throat scratching and dry. Hands pressed a mug into his good hand, helping him upright enough to take a few sips.

“Thanks,” Jack rasped as Barton sat back in a nearby chair. He hadn’t even seen the archer move from his seat in the window. “Where is everyone?”

“Cap, Wilson, and Nat went to chase down some leads. Hunter and Wanda went to get supplies,” Clint replied easily, kicking his feet up on a nearby chair. “You’re looking better,” he said with a sniff, giving Jack a quick once over. “Less peaky, bit more colour in your cheeks.”

“Thanks for your concern,” Jack rasped. “Hey, I put about a pint into—woah, woah, easy!” Jack grunted as he swung his feet over the cot and pushed himself into a sitting position. His vision darkened and he swayed. Only Barton’s quick reactions kept him from pitching forward onto his face. “Slowly,” Barton cautioned. “How long have I been out?” Jack asked, blinking owlishly.

“Couple days,” Barton said, placing a restraining hand on Jack’s shoulder as he tried to stand. “You took quite the beating, just take it easy.”

“I need my phone,” Jack demanded. Barton huffed but got up and crossed the room, digging around in a nearby duffle. Jack used the opportunity to heave himself up into the recently vacated chair. His shoulder pulled and his ribs protested the jostling movement and Jack bit his lip to with a grimace. “Can’t leave you alone for two seconds?” Barton muttered grumpily as he strode back to the kitchen. He snatched up a pillow the cot before kicking it aside and snagging a nearby chair with his foot. He carefully lifted Jack’s injured leg, using the pillow and chair to cushion and elevate the injury.

Jack grunted his thanks as he snatched his phone from Barton’s hand. “You’re welcome,” the archer muttered with an eye roll as he moved away to start up the coffee pot. Jack dialled the number by memory, but it just rang and rang and eventually went to voicemail. “Come on, come on,” Jack muttered. He tried twice more before hanging up with a curse. 

Where the fuck was Brock?

 

 

 

Brock could feel his phone vibrate against his thigh from its home in his pocket, but he was more preoccupied with sucking air back into his abused lungs. He coughed, clearing blood and snot from his throat as his hand rubbed at the bruised skin around his neck.

Eight heavily armed, black-clad men lay strewn about the apartment like dolls. Broken glass and furniture lay beside them. Bullet holes perforated walls and pillows, causing feathers to flutter across the blood-stained floor.

James stood nearby, blood from a cut to his cheekbone snaking down his jaw. Brock snatched up his gun which laid nearby, wincing as the glass shards imbedded in his hand shifted. His boots crunched over the glass as he carefully approached the taller man.

“James?” Brock rasped, voice hoarse and painful.

James’ eyes snapped to his, bright and harsh in the dark. They almost seemed to glow and Brock couldn't help but be reminded of all those nervous green agents and spineless lab techs who had often talked in hushed whispers about those eyes.

_Ghost eyes._

“Follow me,” James said, voice flat and toneless. He yanked a nearby closet open, snatching up a black bag before stalking to the door. He peaked out carefully, scanning the hallway, before giving Brock a curt nod and slipping out into the darkly lit hallway. “Wait!” Brock hissed but James didn’t turn back and Brock was forced to follow the younger man as he descended the rickety stairs swiftly. “Goddamnit,” Brock grumbled, hurrying after James as he strode towards a black truck parked on the far side of the lot.

“What about clean up?” Brock hissed as James tossed the bag into the back of the truck. He got no verbal answer. James just grabbed a small black device from the glove box and flipped a switch. Brock flinched at the booming explosion that blew out the already broken windows of the apartment. “Jesus fuck!” he snapped.

“Get in,” was all James said, hopping up into the driver’s seat and starting the truck. Brock climbed up into the passenger seat, just barely closing the door before James sped out of the parking lot with a harsh squeal of tires.

“France is that way,” Brock said dryly after a few moments, pointing in the opposite direction to the one they were currently going. “I know,” James said, eyes staring stiffly down the road. “Okay,” Brock said slowly. “You wanna tell me where we are going then?” Only then did James turn, glancing his way with eyes that seemed to glow in the dark, reflecting a myriad of emotions Brock couldn't even begin to understand. And then he spoke, voice harsh and so cold it chilled Brock to the bone.

“To cut the head off the snake.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a long break. I got swept up in another story and also had really no idea where I wanted this one to go! It's a short chapter, but hopefully an indication of things to come. There may be long gaps in between posts with this one but know that I haven't abandoned it and will finish it, slowly but surely! Thanks to everyone who is still reading!!!! Feedback is my fairy dust! xx


	10. October

The phone rang only once before Jack had it to his ear. “Where are you?” he growled, prompting the others gathered in the dusty studio to turn and stare. “Croatia, I think,” the dry, familiar voice chuckled in his ear and Jack swallowed as the knot of tension finally released from somewhere inside his chest. Then another one formed as he truly processed the man's words.

“What?” he said quietly.

 

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Brock said with a chuckle as he kicked his boots up on the dash of the truck. That earned his a nasty look from James, which he primly ignored. “Why the fuck are you so far east?” he heard Jack whisper softly, the harsh words in contrast to the gentle tone of his voice.

Brock knew better.

He knew Jack was furious and he had ever right to be. Brock had ghosted him, something he had promised never to do; had promised Jack in front of their witnesses and signed a piece of paper saying just that. And Brock had broken that promise, but there was nothing else he could do. There wasn’t anyone he’d rather have by his side but injured as he was, Jack would be nothing but a liability. James needed someone to watch his back and Brock owed the kid more than he could ever properly replay. This at least was something that he could do.

“Snake hunting,” he said, casting a side glance as James. The man kept his eyes on the road, the picture of ease with on hand lazily on the wheel. The only tell of his stress was the tension lines around his eyes and the absentminded tapping at the gearshift.

 

_Snake hunting._

Those words echoed in Jack’s head, bouncing back and forth and refusing to settle. He ignored the pain in his shoulder and stomach, the aching snap that crackled across his ribs as he levered himself to his feet. He waved off Hunter’s protests and offers of help as he shuffled out onto the small deck.

“Brock, what are you doing?” he said in that soft tone he always used when he was either furious or terrified. Currently, he was both. He heard Brock huff a sigh. “Look, he needs this,” he heard the older man say in a hushed voice. “Don’t put this on him,” Jack snarled quietly. “If this is just some redemption bullshit, Brock, I swear to god—.”

 

Brock swallowed stiffly as he heard Jack choke off his words. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, full disclosure.” He switched the phone to the other ear, turning to look out the window at the trees whipping by in the dark. “Yeah, maybe this is about redemption,” he said quietly, finally admitting it out loud. “Not that it's something I expect to find. We did so much shit over the years, Jack. Too much. But maybe I can help make it right, even just a little bit. At the very least, I have to try.”

The silence on the other end of the line lasted so long that Brock began to wonder if he’d lost Jack. Then — “Okay.”

“Okay?” Brock asked in a shaky voice. A heavy sigh hissed in his ear. “I was the one who kept saying we owed the kid,” Jack grumbled. “How was I to know it’d finally gotten through your thick skull.” Brock chuckled at the disgruntled tone in the other man’s voice.

“Where are you headed?” Jack asked and Brock felt his heart sink. “It’ll take a couple days before I can—,”

“No,” Brock said shortly. Brock could practically hear the shock in the silence that followed his declaration. “I bought you and Hunter plane tickets. You head back to Indonesia in four days. I don't care what you have to do, who you have to kill, you get yourself on that plane. You hear me?”

“Brock,” Jack began but he wasn’t having any of it. “Jack,” he said, in a tone of voice he rarely used these days. It was the voice he’d used with Jack in the field; the voice that brokered no argument, with no room for negotiation or compromise. It was the _‘shut up and do what I say’_ voice, reserved specifically for Jack and no one else.

 

Jack felt his teeth click as he shut his mouth with a snap. He hadn’t heard Brock take that tone with him in a very long time. Not since before working with the asset, back at the beginning of STRIKE. And what was worse was Jack knew Brock was right. He was in no shape to help anyone, barely even himself right now.

“Fuck,” he growled softly, feeling his throat grow tight. “I know Jacky, I know,” Brock murmured in his ear. Brock didn’t say anything else, but there wasn’t anything else to say. Jack sighed, then swayed, gripping the railing for support as his vision darkened and his knees felt weak. He must have made a noise because instantly Brock was babbling in his ear.

“Jack? You good? What’s going on? Jack?”

“I’m fine,” Jack growled through gritted teeth, pushing the pain away with sheer will power alone. “Get yourself lying down, you idiot,” Brock snapped. Jack huffed a laugh, even though it hurt. He swallowed thickly, sobering up.

“You be fucking careful,” he snarled. “And don’t get yourself killed. You hear me?”

 

 _“You hear me?”_ Jack’s voice echoed in his ear, the softness of his voice telling Brock exactly how scared he was. This was big. Brock was getting himself way in over his head and he'd never been in a situation like this without Jack there to watch his back. “Don’t fucking die without me there to chew you out for it,” the younger man snapped. Brock gave a watery chuckle, scrubbing his nose with the back of his hand.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Good,” was the short answer from the other side of the phone. Silence reigned over the connection again, neither man willing to be the first one to end it. Brock couldn't help but chuckle at the fucking rom-com stupidity they seemed to be unable to escape. “Nothing,” he said to Jack’s questioning grunt. “Just miss you,” he said softly. So softly that he could barely hear it himself. “Fucking sap,” Jack growled, but Brock didn’t miss the way his voice sounded a little thicker than normal. “Yeah I know,” Brock chuckled, clearing his throat. “You love it, though.”

“Yeah, I know.”

 

Jack swallowed thickly. “You check in, you hear me?” he snapped, his composure regained as much as it could be as he heard the door click open behind him and Hunter stepped out onto the deck. “You check in at least once a week or I will find you and kill you myself.” He ignored the raised eyebrows from the younger man. Not a lot of people understood that the threats and insults where they’re way of saying _‘I love you.’_

“Copy that,” Brock chuckled in his ear. “Stay safe,” Jack whispered before abruptly hanging up. His face crumpled into a grimace as he doubled over a little, hand hovering above the bandaged hole in his abdomen. “Okay, time to get you horizontal,” Hunter muttered as he got an arm under Jack’s shoulders and moving to help him back inside.

“He’ll be fine,” Hunter said. “I know,” Jack replied softly. “He always is.” And then the door opened and Jack found himself confronted with a large angry blonde man and at least three other pairs of eyes staring accusingly at him.

Jack huffed. This was going to be fun.

 

 _“Stay safe,”_ Jack had said before the line abruptly went dead. Brock tossed his phone on the dashboard with a clatter and sighed. “So where are we headed?” he said, clearing his throat as he untwisted himself in his seat. James gave him a long look, eyes calculating and sharp. “You don’t have to—,”

“Just shut up,” Brock interrupted. He wasn’t about to let the kid spiral into some hole of guilt for dragging him on this witch hunt. “Where are we going?” Brock could almost feel the tension radiate out through the cab of the truck. It took a while for James to unwind himself enough to speak just a single word.

“Germany.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know its super short but I needed to wrap this year up and I didn't want to leave everyone hanging with Brock off in one direction and Jack off in another and them having not even spoken. Thanks to everyone whose stuck it out on this crazy journey!! I keep writing because you seem to like to read it!! xx

**Author's Note:**

> Another year beginning. The feedback for this series so far has been absolutely incredible, miles beyond what I had expected. Keep it coming! Thanks to everyone for sticking with me this far.


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